


We Have Worn Out the Meaning of Our Clothes

by MonsterTesk



Series: Apparel [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Polyamory, References to Domestic Violence, Unrequited Love, Violence, abusive behaviors, established relationship(s) - Freeform, gray area past unhealthy relationship, lack of consent sex, past unrequited danny/scott, pining!derek, some poorly written gore, unadvised binge drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 62
Words: 109,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/MonsterTesk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Derek a long time to find out and he's very unhappy about it. It's not that Stiles is with someone else, it's who he's with... he keeps telling himself. It's been a long time since Stiles and him were a thing anyway. He's way over that now. Besides, it's not like the two of them could ever possibly last. Derek can just bide his time and watch the inevitable train wreck this will turn into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm basically just writing this to relax. Don't expect too much of me and I'm sure we'll both be happy. 
> 
> Just a few notes on the universe. It's AU because obvious. Stiles is around nineteenish, almost twenty and goes to a college about an hour and a half from Beacon Hills. For convenience and possibly also because of favoritism I've set this in Northern California where the cold(ish) winters and abundant forests found in Teen Wolf are entirely possible.  
> For the people who know the area, I've set Beacon Hills in Granite Bay(ish) and enrolled Stiles in Sac State. 
> 
> Scott stayed in Beacon Hills and is becoming a vet tech, Allison went to Sac State with Stiles, Lydia and Jackson are at Berkley, Danny is at Chico State, Boyd and Erica are at Monterey State, Isaac and Derek sort of half-live with Boyd and Erica in Monterey and in an apartment complex in Beacon Hills while they oversee the building of a new house over Derek's old one. 
> 
> Stiles and Boyd dated in high school and parted amicably, still close friends but firm in the knowledge that they didn't work romantically. Derek and Stiles had a sort of game of chicken that involved lots of yelling, sex, and Stiles trying to assert himself and Derek basically being a bit chauvinistic and treating Stiles like a possession instead of the person he was. Stiles ended it when he realized Derek wasn't going to change. There was lots of fighting and maybe a little unhealthy stalking. It wasn't good.  
> It's been a while since they've seen or talked to each other. 
> 
> I'm more putting this here for my reference than yours but I figure it might reduce the confusion of everyone else as well as be a physical reminder of the backstory for me.
> 
> My love of a pairing is inversely related to how doomed said pairing is.  
> Just a waring: this FEATURES Sterek but it isn't necessarily the end game so if you're looking for that then you've got the wrong boat. There WILL be Sterek but there will also be Stiles/Chris.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Derek a long time to find out and he's very unhappy about it. It's not that Stiles is with someone else, it's who he's with... he keeps telling himself. It's been a long time since Stiles and him were potentially a thing anyway. He's way over that now. Besides, it's not like the two of them could ever possibly last. Derek can just bide his time and watch the inevitable train wreck this will turn into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm basically just writing this to relax. Don't expect too much of me and I'm sure we'll both be happy.
> 
> Just a few notes on the universe. It's AU because obvious. Stiles is around nineteenish, almost twenty and goes to a college about an hour and a half from Beacon Hills. For convenience and possibly also because of favoritism I've set this in Northern California where the cold(ish) winters and abundant forests found in Teen Wolf are entirely possible.  
> For the people who know the area, I've set Beacon Hills in Granite Bay(ish) and enrolled Stiles in Sac State.
> 
> Scott stayed in Beacon Hills and is becoming a vet tech, Allison went to Sac State with Stiles, Lydia and Jackson are at Berkeley, Danny is at CSU Chico, Boyd and Erica are at CSU Monterey Bay, Isaac and Derek sort of half-live with Boyd and Erica in Monterey and in an apartment complex in Beacon Hills while they oversee the building of a new house over Derek's old one.
> 
> Stiles and Boyd dated in high school and parted amicably, still close friends but firm in the knowledge that they didn't work romantically. Derek and Stiles had a sort of game of chicken that involved lots of yelling, sex, and Stiles trying to assert himself and Derek basically being a bit chauvinistic and treating Stiles like a possession instead of the person he was. Stiles ended it when he realized Derek wasn't going to change. There was lots of fighting and maybe a little unhealthy stalking. It wasn't good.  
> It's been a while since they've seen or talked to each other.
> 
> I'm more putting this here for my reference than yours but I figure it might reduce the confusion of everyone else as well as be a physical reminder of the backstory for me.
> 
> My love of a pairing is inversely related to how doomed said pairing is.  
> Just a waring: this FEATURES Sterek but it isn't necessarily the end game so if you're looking for that then you've got the wrong boat. There WILL be Sterek but there will also be Stiles/Chris.

**Some days it's like it just happened all over again.** This week has consisted entirely of those days. The pain feels fresh and his increased need to use his cane and leg brace means that he becomes more aware of the things that are no longer possible for him. Most days he ignores it, goes without the cane, wears pants over his leg brace, tries to convince himself that the way people look at him and treat him when his disability is visible doesn't matter to him. But it's not so easy to ignore it when he has to ask his teacher to create an alternate assignment because Stiles is physically incapable of hauling himself all around campus on a scavenger hunt. It's hard to ignore when he's forced to take the stairs to his ten o'clock class because the elevator is on the other side of the building and he'd be late if he took it. His knee wouldn't hurt like a bitch but his teacher would deduct five points per day for his tardiness. He's sure he could talk to her about it but he doesn't like being a disruption and there are literally only thirteen students in his class. 

Stiles takes a deep breathe and lets it out slowly. His knee was killing him. Literally killing him. He was sure. He was going to be murdered by the major joint in his right leg. The drive to Beacon Hills had been absolutely dreadful. He took in another deep breath to fortify himself and opened the Jeep door. Getting out was just as painful as he thought it would be. At least it wasn't trying to get to his physics class, he tells himself in the vain hope that that will make it feel better. It doesn't work. He leaves his bag in the car because he really doesn't want to try to walk and lug the duffle bag at the same time. He just wants to get inside and ignore the world for the next eight days. 

He lets himself in through the side garage door. No cars. He must still be at that meeting proposal thingy he had in Modesto. Stiles gets himself a glass of orange juice and sits down on the couch, propping his knee up with a sigh. With his head back against the armrest, he lets out yet another fucking sigh and rubs his orange juice against his leg, letting the condensation cool the heat of the pain. It doesn't really work but Stiles likes to fool himself sometimes. At this point, the pain doesn't so much radiate as becomes one with Stiles' very bones. He sets his orange juice on the floor (the coffee table is too far away and he doesn't want to move his leg) and closes his eyes. He doesn't mean to fall asleep. 

 

It's the gentle rocking motion and pressure on his shoulders that wakes him. He hums with his mouth open- he's sure it's not very attractive but he doesn't care. There's the chuff of a short laugh behind him and thumbs that dig deliciously into the sides of the top of his spine. 

"Hey, I didn't know you were coming today." The words are spoken in the soft and private voice that people reserve for late at night in the close comfort of their bed. Stiles licks his lips and thinks about moving but doesn't actually do it. 

"Got done with classes sooner than I thought I would." There's a dry press of lips on his temple and the light scrape of five o'clock shadow against his ear. 

"What time is it?" 

"Four thirty." 

"Y'jus' get in?"

Chris hums an affirmative and rubs his hands over Stiles' shoulders and across his chest. Stiles let out a breath through his nose in the hopes of expelling some of the tension. He's drifting in an in-between of sleep and awake, enjoying how Chris' hands are rubbing some of the stress out of his body. 

"Left m'bag in Jeep." 

Stiles hears Chris say he'll bring it in and drifts back off. He hears the garage door open and close, drifts, hears the door open again and close. The jingle of his bag and Chris' quick step head away from Stiles and consciousness leaves again. 

He's not sure how long it's been but he wakes up to the smell of gardenias and gun oil. There's the jostle of steps and the arms around Stiles tighten briefly when he presses his face into Chris' neck. The tread is steady up the stairs and Stiles can hear Chris breathing. His knee is doing this cold fire type pain that's almost relieving in that it feels a little like his bones are made of ice, which is a great improvement from stacks of shattered razor blades. 

"Oh Lancelot, you're so strong." 

Chris laughs and Stiles presses his lips over his larynx, feeling the vibration of his laugh. Chris swallows and jostles Stiles a bit. 

"Get the door?" 

"Sure."

"You do realize that if I'm Lancelot, that makes you Gwendolyn?"

"So? I'd look bitching in one of those old dresses." 

Chris sets Stiles down on the bed and Stiles turns onto his side and stretches out, grabbing one of the many pillows on the bed and setting it between his knees. There's a rustling noise and then a click as the bedside lamp is turned on. 

"You know I'm not letting you sleep in your clothes, right?" 

Stiles groans and curls up a little. He really doesn't want to try to take off his jeans right now. His leg has just gotten to a tolerable level and he was so not fucking with that. 

"Come on, you'll be happy you did later." The problem lies in that Chris is completely right. He sighs and sits up, throwing his pillow at Chris who just catches it and sets it aside because he is a way better person than Stiles and far more patient and understanding. He turns so that his legs dangle over the edge of the bed and opens his jeans. Because Chris is an angel and should feel bad about making everyone else feel like terrible people, he helps Stiles carefully get his leg out without having to bend it too much. Stiles flops back on the bed, flailing his arms out above him with a noise far too related to a petulant whine than is probably dignified. Stiles gave up on dignity during the first week of a three-month long stretch where he had to be carried to the bathroom. Stiles wriggles a little so his knees are up on the bed and just his lower legs and feet hang over the side.

 

There's rustling once again, accompanied by the clack of opening drawers and the shutting of the hamper near the bathroom door. Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates on the sounds that Chris makes, on the hue of red the lamp turns the back of his eyelids and the cicadas outside quietly chirping. The bed dips down on the left side of Stiles' hip, next to his right elbow, beside his left armpit. A hot mouth touches his and he responds in kind, feeling soothed by the familiar texture of Chris' dry lips and wide mouth.

It's funny kissing Chris because he doesn't kiss like any of the people Stiles' age do. Their mouths always seem smaller, less wide, less open and wetter. Boy, they're all just slobbery. Stiles really has no room to talk because he knows he gets pretty slobbery. But not Chris. His kisses are always hot and a little dry like kissing gives him cottonmouth. And airy. Stiles doesn't know how else to describe it. It's like the difference between the cloistered and humid feel of a New England house verses the open setting of a Californian home. It's warm and welcoming and hot. Just hot. Really hot.

Stiles brings one of his hands down to fist Chris' hair and crunches up a little, pressing into the kiss. He lightly rubs the tip of his tongue against the little bump caused by the notch in Chris' upper lip. Chris inhales through his nose with a slight whistling sound and presses the leg not holding his weight against Stiles' left leg. Chris uses his lips in a kiss more than Stiles was used to before him. He still uses probably more tongue than Chris is used to but he's never complained about it to Stiles before. Maybe he likes it. Stiles knows he likes how dexterous Chris' lips seem to be. He never thought a dry kiss sounded so sexy before but now he's grown a sort of acquired taste for them. 

Chris' hand rubs gently up and down Stiles' ribs and it's Stiles' turn to inhale through his nose and escalate a tiny bit by bringing both of his hands to Chris' face, boxing him in a little and dragging his palms across Chris' jaw, feeling the tingly scrape of stubble against the sensitive skin there. He loves this, he really does. He loves the lack of urgency and the slow build of need. He loves being able to kiss and kiss and kiss without it having to just be the start of something. He likes being able to kiss for kissing's sake. Chris slides the arm he has braced up a little. Stiles can see his bicep out of the corner of his eye. He enjoys that, too. Along with the press of Chris' chest against his and the slow slide of his shin against Stiles'. Enjoys the way Chris' hand comes up to cup Stiles' pectoral, pressing his palm lightly over his nipple. 

It's all nice. The narrowness of Chris' hips, the lean stretch of his body, the way the muscles in his back bunch and stretch under Stiles' hands. Chris presses his hip against Stiles' and breathes in deeply, bunching Stiles' T-shirt in his hand. Stiles lets out a contented sound and holds Chris' hips against him. Chris buries his head against Stiles' neck and mouths dry kisses slowly into the crook of his neck. Slowly, painfully slowly, he flexes his shoulders, his back, his ass, and thighs to drag his body against Stiles'. The friction of the heavy weight of Chris' body and the slide of clothes light Stiles up like fairy lights on a Christmas tree. He cups Chris' ass and pulls down while he rolls his hips up. His ass clenches under Stiles' hands and he gasps in a slow breath against Stiles' neck. 

 

Chris sits up; leans back awkwardly on his knees and Stiles drags himself the rest of the way onto the bed to sit up. The look in Chris' eyes will always make Stiles' stomach drop. It's that look like part of him still thinks that this can't be real, that he's being daring and reaching out on a limb, like he sees Stiles and what he sees makes parts of him dark and heavy with the thoughts about him. Stiles always feels a little terrified when he sees that look. It always feels like a little too much for Stiles to cope with. He's not sure how he would explain how the look always makes him realize he's alone in the room with Chris like being alone with him is still a novel thing. Stiles pulls his T-shirt off over his head and leans back on his hands. He doesn't have to wait long before he can feel Chris' dry hands slide up his belly, across his ribs, and begin to rub wide palms against Stiles' chest. Closing his eyes, Stiles leans his head back and concentrates on how good it feels. He's not surprised when Chris' mouth joins his hands, laying more of his wide, open-mouthed kisses on Stiles' chest. Chris scoots closer, briefly rests his hands on Stiles' shoulder for balance, and straddles Stiles. 

Stiles opens his eyes and looks at the space between Chris' lips. Stiles doesn't want to look up into Chris' eyes. Just a little bit. It's a whim, really. He doesn't like to because sometimes he thinks he sees this intense devotion there and he can't handle that. Maybe he's too immature. No doubt, he is. But seeing something like that in another person's face is cowing to someone as young as Stiles. Everyone his age is so self-centered. Not that it's a bad thing, really, but it's true. They're all so focused on themselves so much that they don't get that kind of feelings for another person often. Devotion scares Stiles. It's a beautiful thing in other people, but devotion  _to_  Stiles is something that he thinks will always scare him a little. 

 

So instead of addressing it Stiles wraps his fingers around the back of Chris' neck and pulls him down into a kiss. It's quiet in the room, the light from the bedside lamp is yellow and steady, the cicadas outside grow quiet as birds begin to chirp, the only sound created in the room is the steady and strong breathes that Chris takes and the rustle of the bed sheets. They stay like that for a while, quietly running hands over each other and moving their mouths together. Stiles much prefers this. Much prefers the simplicity and comfort of kissing to having to talk about the looks Chris gives him sometimes or how, without discussing it, they've come to mean something more to each other than just the casual companionship that they had agreed on. He prefers Chris' gentle touches to his gentle words. Prefers this to having to rush to the inevitable ending that they'll have. They had given their words at the beginning of this to be nothing serious, nothing serious, and now they operate under the hope that if they don't address it, don't address how they're very much something serious, then they won't have to end it. Because that's the only way things would turn out between them. They both knew this -had said so clearly- when they first got together. Their ages were too far apart, their history too sordid, their differences too great. They knew that anything between them would be doomed. Simply doomed. So they tricked themselves into pretending they weren't much to each other, didn't mean much to each other. 

It was easier back in the beginning when it had just been a helping hand for Stiles who was just trying to figure out how to live with a bum knee and no money. It was easier back when it had just been hugs and sitting on the couch together and talking late at night about how things had gone so wrong. It was easier to trick themselves back when they didn't have their own toothbrush in each other's bathrooms and keys to each other's places. It was easier when Chris was just Allison's creepy but hot dad. It was easier when Stiles was just flirting with Chris to knock him off balance. Now Stiles presses his lips to Chris' collarbone as the (much older) man sleeps and hopes to hold off the inevitable for another week, another month, maybe another year. And that's the scary part, really. Two weeks ago had been the one year mark since they sat down at Chris' dining room table and negotiated a relationship. 

 

It's kind of funny how Stiles' longest relationship is the one where they had both known from the beginning that it wouldn't last. He presses his forehead against Chris' chest and concentrates on the birds calling outside of the window and the slow growth of light in the room from the rising sun. He turns his head and rubs his cheek against Chris' chest hair, focuses on how much he enjoys how that feels. His hand tightens on Chris' waist where it rests and Stiles tries to ignore how his jaw tightens at the prospect of eventual loss.

 

When Stiles wakes up again it's to the sound of the shower running. He rolls over onto his back and sighs, scratching his stomach. While he refuses to admit it, he sleeps better here than anywhere else. The shower turns off and there's silence for a few minutes, the only sound the slow rotation of the ceiling fan. The door opened again and Stiles turns his head to watch Chris walk across the room to his dresser. 

"Hey." 

"You're awake." Stiles' lips curl into a smile. 

"And you're naked." Chris twitches, the bicep on his arm closest to Stiles flexing. 

"Your dad called while you were asleep. He wants you to come over for dinner." 

"You answered it?" 

"Yeah. I was up already. Got a call from Derek." Stiles is more alert at the mention of that name. He scoots up into a sitting position against the headboard. 

"Problem?"

"Yeah, I'm thinking it must not be anything big since no one called you." Stiles nods with a frown, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. He focuses back in on Chris when he hears the dresser drawer open. Chris has a pinched expression on his face like something in his drawer wronged him. 

"Come here." 

"I can't be late." 

"I know. Come here." Chris walks across the floor, holding the knot to his towel with a suspicious look. Stiles tugs on his arm until he bends down over him. He kisses him twice slowly, running his hand through Chris' wet hair. When he pulls back Chris is smiling, small, hopeful. It sends a pang through Stiles' chest for reasons he doesn't want to think about. 

"Go get 'em, killer." 

Chris laughs and gets dressed while Stiles watches. 


	2. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek meets Chris Argent at Denny's. We all get to find out what the external conflict is going to be for this story. You know, aside from Derek pining over Stiles.

**They meet at the Denny's** halfway between the Argent residence and the Hale property. Stiles (at the thought of the name Derek feels a dull throb in his chest) had had the forethought to choose a place on neutral ground that was almost always open and steadily busy. Derek also thinks Stiles must have been a little hungry when he suggested it. Denny's is Stiles' favorite. Or was. It's been almost a year and a half since he last talked to him. 

With fifteen minutes until Argent is supposed to show, Derek claims the booth in the less populated area near the bathrooms and kitchen. Argent arrives exactly on time with a strange look on his face, half pleased with himself, half shocked. He sits down opposite Derek and orders some food to go from the waitress. When she leaves, Derek is exposed to Argent's W.A.P. smile. (Stiles coined the term: We're All Pals (but I will gleefully murder you given the chance.) smile). It's silent aside from the sounds echoing out of the kitchen and the distant thrum of conversation. Somewhere on the other side of the place Derek thinks he hears Scott and Allison eating together. Argent pours himself a cup of coffee, black, and takes a casual sip of it. It's awkwardly quiet at the table. Like some business meeting before the pitch. Which, considering, isn’t all that far off.

Derek sits there as still as he can, hands resting on either side of his glass of water. He deems it unfair that Argent can always look like he knows what he's doing, that he never has to think about what he's supposed to do with his body to appear calm and in control. It's been over four years since he spent the majority of his time in the wild, hopping from state park to reserve, squatting on other pack's land with his sister as they constantly moved around the country but that awkwardness from abandoning most of his more human traits is still there. 

 

"There's a rogue pack threatening Hale Territory." Argent slowly sets his coffee cup down and stares at his own hand as it slowly curls into a fist. 

"Is it the same one as last time?"

"No, not that I can tell." Argent's fist unclenches slightly and he breathes out carefully. Derek can smell the coffee he just drank, his toothpaste, mouthwash, and another scent that's overwhelmingly familiar that Derek can't place.

"How long?"

"They left their mark early this morning." 

"So we have a few days," Argent pauses, takes a drink of his coffee. "Are you calling in your full pack for this?"

"They were all coming home for spring break anyway." Argent nods and rubs his hand over his mouth. 

"Of course, of course. I should have remembered."  Now that Derek's looking for it, he can smell that familiar scent all over Argent. He must not have noticed it with all of the confusion from being in a frequented public place but it's strong, almost entirely ingrained into his scent. It's so familiar. Why can't he place it? It smells like... like...

 

"Dad!" Allison stops in front of the table, a smile on her face, though there's a weariness tinging it. Argent smiles up at her.

"Hey sweetie."  Her eyes flick between Derek and Argent. 

"Is there... a problem?" She seems to tense at that, as if ready to reach for some hidden weapon if necessary. Derek feels awkward again, unsure what he should do. 

So he sits quietly and watches the two. 

"Derek spotted some strays." Allison's expression becomes openly worried. 

"Scott? Will you come here, please?" Allison says this quietly, confident that he'll hear her. There's no question that he will. They've been together so long that he's always going to be tuned in to her voice saying his name. It sends a stab of longing through Derek, remembering how his parents used to have conversations from opposite sides of the house like that, talking quietly and calmly, as if speaking only to themselves, sure in the knowledge that their other would hear them. Scott wanders over, his face gaining a stronger look of trepidation the closer he gets.

"Allison?" He says her name like he's sure she'll understand what he means, as if her name has thousands of meanings and she knows exactly which one he's going for. Derek's jaw clenches. Sometimes he hates being around them, being exposed to a couple that just _work_ together like that. They make it seem so effortless. 

She says "Strays," and his hand automatically reaches out to hers. She smiles a strained smile at him and squeezes his hand. Everyone remembers, Derek thinks with more than a little helping of shame. Everyone remembers exactly what happened the last time a rogue pack came. Stiles-- Derek can't help but wonder if they'd still be together if not for the attack. If they would have worked it out if Stiles hadn’t- if Derek had- He takes a deep breathe to calm himself.

Allison and Scott both smell like it too! Why can't he place this damn scent?

 

“Should I tell Stiles?" Allison is looking at her father like for some reason he's the one to ask. Argent shakes his head.

"I'll tell him." She bites her lip briefly and says, "Is that really, I mean, he'll want to know as soon as possible..." Derek clenches his jaw and forces his eyes to stare directly at whoever is talking and not avert them to stare at his hands.

"Chris is right, let him have some time to relax before we dump this on him." Scott rubs his hand down Allison's arm, an uncomfortable look on his face when he says Argent's first name. Allison still looks conflicted, wavers, and finally sighs and droops a little. 

"Alright. You tell him but don't wait too long! If he doesn't know by Monday I'll tell him myself." She glares at her father with a suspicious look. Argent smiles at her fondly. "This is no favor to you, dad. I just know how stressed Stiles has been this week." She narrows her eyes at him, pressing her lips together imperiously and pokes him in the arm.

Derek would like to know very much why Argent gets to be the one to tell Stiles. He wants to know what business Argent has with Stiles that would allow him the privilege of telling this to Stiles instead of his own best friend but he keeps his mouth shut, remembering the last time he saw Stiles. Maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to Stiles again; to see if he’s doing well or if maybe it had been long enough... Sometimes when Derek is laying in bed at night or driving the long trip back from Monterey he thinks of what he should have said or done, what he did do, how things could have been different. The last time he so much as saw him was at Albertson's almost nine months ago. Derek didn't even know someone could limp away so quickly. It had hurt, Stiles doing that to him. Derek couldn't help it, even after all this time it still hurt him more than it probably should. He could do this, keep this rogue pack away. For Stiles.

 

The waitress stops by the table, dropping off Argent’s order with a smile and the bill.

 

“I’ll tell him this weekend. Where are you two heading?” Allison bites her lip and looks shyly at Scott.

“We were, uh…” Argent smiles that W.A.P. smile again.

“You two have been together almost four years, if you can’t say it by now…”

“Please don’t.”

“It’s just a simple word, Allison.”

“Oh my god, please dad. Last time you did this Scott couldn’t—“

“Allison!” Scott shouts, scandalized.

“For a _week_.”

Argent smirks and leans back in his seat.

“Are you heading home?” Argent asks with a sly look. Allison bites her lip and nods.

“Will you deliver this before you have sex in my house?”  Scott makes a terrified noise and hides his face against Allison’s shoulder.

“You are a terrible father.” Argent laughs while Allison glares at him. She picks up the take-away bag and leaves. Scott shuffling behind her, still trying to hide in her hair. Argent smiles after them with a pleased look on his face before turning back to Derek.

“So, tell me what else you know about this rogue pack.”

Derek takes a deep breath (that scent niggling him) and starts talking in clipped words, outlining it all while Argent nods along, interjecting to ask questions or clarify things.

 

It’s strange to think that this working truce between the two of them wouldn’t have been possible without Stiles. So much of the stability and happiness of his pack came about because of Stiles. Derek wouldn’t have all he had if it weren’t for Stiles. Sometimes Derek can’t help but think that he can’t do this, at least not by himself. He lacks so much of the nurturing ability that’s necessary to care for others. If his pack had been natural born werewolves then maybe it would have been easier. They would have understood him so much better if they had been. So much is lost or mistranslated in communication between human-born people and werewolves.

Stiles had always seemed to get him, though; had always understood what he wasn’t saying with his words. Derek was not sure he’d ever meet someone as perceptive as Stiles again.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison is a goddess with breakfast foods. Scott will never be not wigged out by his best friend having a thing with his girlfriend's dad. Stiles is surrounded by assholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make chapter 2 longer but I didn't. Incidentally: did you know there are a *shitload* of videos of ferrets acting adorable on YouTube? 
> 
> Warning for blatant use of 90's shows, classic feminist short stories, and nickelodeon.

**Stiles used to be wigged out** by being able to spend an entire day alone in the Argent's house without Allison there. Now he sits in his boxers and one of Chris' soft T-shirts, eating cereal and watching TiVoed reruns of Kenan and Kel. Sometimes he wonders if he should just change his fucking permanent address already. And then he starts panicking. Because, wow. He  _could,_ he's here  _that much._ Half of his clothes are in Chris' room. He's basically an honorary Argent and that's  _scary_. In Sacramento he shares an apartment with Allison (who leaves her socks everywhere. Like, seriously? Has this girl ever heard of a hamper before?) and then he comes back to his hometown not to his dad's place but to Chris'. His dad  _expects_ him to be here: leaves messages on the home phone, drops off mail and care packages here. He even comes here to visit Stiles sometimes. Always with this pinched, uncomfortable look because his dad is never going to be OK with his only son dating a man his age but really, they both know Stiles is just going to do what he's going to do and if what he does happens to be a hot older man then so be it. 

He's laughing with his mouth full of soggy frosted flakes as Kenan's rent-a-mom invites Principal Dimly over for dinner on Saturday. Kenan is totally fucked. What shenanigans. When Allison unlocks the front door and calls "MARCOOOOOROOONIIII!" through the house. Stiles swallows his mouthful of food and answers. "EL POLLLLLLOOOO LOCOOOOOO." He really, truly, loves living with Allison. Aside from the sock thing. And also the walking in on her and Scott fucking all the time. All. The. Time. He pauses the TV when he hears her walk into the living room, Scott in tow. 

 

"I hope you're not full." Stiles' eyes light up with love, legit love, at the sight of the bag in her hands. 

"You got me Denny's?! Ohmygod let me love you long time." Allison dangles the bag in front of his face and he snatches it out of her hands, cradling it to his chest, stroking it lovingly.

"Dad got it for you. We ran into him there."

"So I should love him long time."

Scott makes a strangled noise and looks uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot behind the couch. Allison smirks and vaults over the couch back to sit next to Stiles. She presses play and picks up his bowl of cereal. Stiles turns big watery doe eyes on Scott. Then grins triumphantly and high-fives Allison when Scott sighs and walks off to the kitchen to go get Stiles a glass of orange juice. 

"We have him well-trained." 

"Yessssss."

They're silent for the time it takes Scott to shuffle back from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice for Stiles and two cans of coke. Stiles take a loving bite of hash browns, perfectly crunchy and moans at how they mix so well with the egg yolk. 

"Ugh, Stiles, could you be a little quieter, please?" 

"That's not what your dad said last night." Scott chokes on his coke sneezing, what looks to be, a painful amount of soda out of his nose. He hacks a few times, pressing his hand to his nose. Allison shakes her head in pity and leans over to where Scott sits on the adjacent couch and rubs circles into his back. 

"Poor Scott is having a bad day. First my dad talking about us having sex and now this.... Poor baby is never going to escape the fact that his best friend is a grave robber." 

"Your dad really isn't that old." 

"Oh my god, could we please stop talking about Mr. Argent?" Stiles smirks and Allison grins back mischievously. 

"He's quite spry for his age." Allison nods, gravely, as Scott stares on with a look of betrayal on his face. 

" _Dude."_

 _"_ I mean, some of the things he can do with his--" The pillow Scott throws hits Stiles square in the mouth. 

"Anyway," Stiles says as he tucks the pillow behind him with the rest of them. "What did Derek want?" 

Allison and Scott immediately look at each other and fidget. Stiles sighs. He really, really, hates when they treat him like he's made of glass. He doesn't want to go back to right after- to when they all kept him ignorant and ignored him to keep him "safe." See how well that worked out for them... 

"Were you told not to tell me?" Allison's lips roll into her mouth where Stiles knows she has her teeth set into them. That answers that at least. 

"Is it something I need to worry about now or can it wait until later for me to be pissed at you guys?" 

"Later. It's not important right now."

"Like not important right now as in it won't be a minor inconvenience for another month or not important right now as in it's not causing any dire circumstances this instant but probably will relatively soon?" 

"We have time." 

Stiles sighs and throws the pillow back at Scott. He really hates this shit. Had thought he'd gotten away from it. Apparently everyone is just always going to think him incapable of knowing shit. Who was he? Louise Mallard? He lets it go, for now. If they want to play like that then so be it. 

"Look, Stiles, it's not... We're not doing  _that_ , Chris just want to be the one to tell you is all." 

Stiles flops back against the couch, staring down forlornly at his hash browns like they knew the answer to why,  _why?_  He can't really be mad at them for that. Maybe he can a little. He just wishes that for once people would actually include him from the beginning and not wait to drag him into it until they've buried themselves twelve feet underground (once, literally). 

"Fine. But if any of you actually gets yourselves buried in a hole somewhere don't expect me to dig you out." 

Scott grins at him and crawls across the floor to steal a sausage link. Stiles lets him because he is a generous friend and should apply to be the next mother fucking Theresa. Allison scoots next to him and lays her head on his shoulder, turning up the volume. Scott reclines against Allison's legs, leaning slightly so he brushes against Stiles' good leg. Allison plays with Scott's hair absently and Scott holds Stiles' orange juice so he doesn't have to keep bending over to reach it on the coffee table. When they run out of Kenan and Kel episodes they argue over SpongeBob or Futurama. They end up watching Avatar: The Last Air Bender reruns. Scott has a thing for Toph. He tries to deny it but it's totally obvious. 

 

That's how Chris finds them several hours later. Stiles watches Chris come in from the garage, tense. Scott rubs Stiles' right ankle, unconsciously. Allison doesn't remove her hands from where she's scratching gently at the top of Scott's shoulders. SpongeBob is singing the FUN song on TV and Stiles has his hand in Allison's hair. He'd like to say the lycanthropy made him do it but Stiles has always been a tactile person and Scott contracted it from Stiles far before he became a werewolf. Chris stands in the doorframe and stares at the three of them with this... look he gets sometimes. Stiles can't classify it. Sometimes he thinks it's loneliness or longing, other times he thinks it's a sort of resigned look. Whatever it is, Stiles doesn't like it. He smiles at Chris, craning his head to the side and back so Chris can see the smile. 

"Hey." Chris smiles. It's small and maybe a little sad. 

"Hey." Allison looks over her shoulder briefly before fixing back in on the TV. 

"Hi, dad." 

"Hi, Mr. Argent." 

"Scott, Allison." Chris walks over to the couch and stops behind Stiles who cranes his head back against the couch back to look up at Chris. He raises his hands up, with a small look of trepidation, and places them on Stiles' shoulders. Stiles smiles, welcoming the touch. Neither of them are used to touching in front of other people, so used to keeping safe distances in public. Even with Scott in the room, they'd always made sure not to touch more than necessary. Stiles reaches his free hand up and runs it up and down Chris' arm. 

"Hey, again," Stiles says, this time softer, with more feeling. Chris smiles again except this time it's small and happy. He bends over Stiles and places a soft kiss on Stiles' lips. Stiles is so shocked that he barely has time to respond before Chris is withdrawing, stepping away, and turning. 

"Don't you have somewhere to be soon, Stiles?" he asks over his shoulder, heading to the den. Stiles starts, checks the time.  _Shit._ It's six-thirty. He's got to get ready to head over to his dad's. He only lives ten minutes away but it'll take Stiles that long just to make it up the stairs. Stiles swats Scott's shoulder until he gets off of his leg and releases Stiles' other leg from his clutches. Allison helps him up with a steady hand on his back, eyes still trained on the TV. She's lived with Stiles long enough now to know how to do that without making Stiles feel pathetic. 

The stairs are awful. Absolutely awful. Stiles hates everything. When he's about halfway up, death grip tight on the railing, Chris comes up behind him, the tread of his boots on the stairs slowing to a near stop behind Stiles. He shadows Stiles the whole way up, leaving Stiles to feel agitated and weak. He makes it into Chris' room before turning around and swatting Chris on the chest, scowling at the man.

Chris just smiles fondly and catches Stiles' hand, stepping into Stiles' personal space. Stiles still glares up at him. He's not forgotten what he learned from Allison and Scott. If the fucker wants to keep shit from him then he'll just have to deal with a pissy Stiles. Chris leans in and kisses Stiles slowly. It almost feels like an apology. 

"I'll tell you when you get back. Be safe and alert on the roads. It shouldn't be a problem for a few more days but it'll take more time than five minutes to explain." Stiles mutters something about condescending dicks and withholding information as he wraps his arms around Chris' waist and presses his face against his neck. 

"This isn't cool. You should have told me this morning." 

"I didn't know this morning." Chris kisses the top of his head and wraps his arms tightly around Stiles. 

"I should just start coming to your little asshole meetings..." Chris leans back and stares at Stiles. 

"You really think that would go over well." Stiles sighs and steps back, running a hand over his head. His leg is really starting to hurt. He's going to have to use his cane for the rest of the day. 

"It's a terrible idea. Still. You can't keep shit from me, Chris."

"I know. I'm not. I just wanted to give you all of the information at once instead of getting it in parts from Allison or Scott." Stiles glares at him because it's really not cool to say that right now.  

"I promise. I'm not withholding information in some misguided attempt to protect you or anything. I want you to know." 

"I don't like this. Just tell me." 

"You're going to be late to your dad's." 

"Not if you tell me now." Chris' mouth pinches in irritation while his eyes slide halfway shut. Stiles hates that look. It's terrible. He raises his eyebrows and shrugs his mouth. Chris sighs, "Fine." 

Stiles resists the twitch in his mouth to smile. He knows too well that he won't like what he's about to hear. 

"There's a rogue pack threatening Hale Territory." Oh.  _Oh_. Oh no. Stiles staggers, reeling, stumbles back, the pain in his leg flaring so much that it roars through his ears. His vision whites out in spots. All he can hear for an interminable amount of time is wheezing and this amazingly loud and fast pounding.  When he comes to Chris is kneeling in front of him and somehow he's sitting on their bed. His hands are white and red where they clutch the bed sheets and he's pretty sure either the whole world is shaking or it's just him. Probably just him. Maybe both. Yeah, definitely both. Stiles feels dizzy nauseated. He leans foreword, breathing heavy, presses his forehead against Chris', tries to concentrate on the tickle of Chris' hair against his face. 

"Oh." He's not even sure how he managed to get that much out. Shakily, he says, "I'm definitely going to be late to my dad's." Chris smiles wanly and cups his face, kissing him gently. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I the only one left who regularly uses slang from BTVS?  
> Also they closed down the El Pollo Loco in my city. Literally, THE only one. How is that even fair? I NEED TACOS.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a creeper. This is why he sees things he doesn't want to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M GOING TO BED.

**Derek would never claim to be even remotely all knowing** so when he parts with Chris Argent, he doesn’t know how Stiles will take the news and that worries him. Stiles is so fragile and something like this could do some serious damage. So he follows him. He expects Argent to head to the Stilinski household but instead he heads towards his own. Derek is confused, but follows. On the street outside of the Argent house is Stiles’ old, ugly jeep. Derek had walked up to the house from where he’d left his car two blocks over. He sneaks into their neighbors backyard, knowing that Scott was probably inside and would hear him if he tried to sit on the roof.

 

For a few moments, all he hears is the TV, Allison and Scott’s steady breathing nearby the TV, and the two sets of feet walking down the hall. One set is uneven, lighter and drags slightly every other step; the other is quiet, even and as slow as the first pair. Stiles. He focuses in on the steps, tuning out Scott and Allison and their TV show.

There’s a soft smacking noise and then silence for a few moments, the only sound the rustle of clothing. Derek’s ears burn. That can’t be what he thinks it is.

"I'll tell you when you get back. Be safe and alert on the roads. It shouldn't be a problem for a few more days but it'll take more time than five minutes to explain."

Stiles says something about dicks and withholding information. For a moment, Derek panics because he thinks Stiles knows he’s listening in until he speaks again.

"This isn't cool. You should have told me this morning." Told him… Did Argent talk to Stiles this morning? What purpose could he have with that?

"I didn't know this morning."  There’s the rustle of clothes again and "I should just start coming to your little asshole meetings..." Derek snorts. He’d missed Stiles’ way with words.

"You really think that would go over well." Stiles doesn’t respond well to that, sighing in what Derek assumes is frustration. There’s the sound of footsteps as Stiles moves.

"It's a terrible idea. Still. You can't keep shit from me, Chris." OK…. That’s only a little weird. Why was Stiles calling Argent by his first name? Scott had done it today but Derek had assumed that was just for Allison’s benefit.

"I know. I'm not. I just wanted to give you all of the information at once instead of getting it in parts from Allison or Scott. I promise. I'm not withholding information in some misguided attempt to protect you or anything. I want you to know."  Why is Argent even bothering with this? Is this why Allison had looked to Argent to talk to Stiles? Were they some sort of friends? Derek revolted at the very idea.

"I don't like this. Just tell me." Stiles sounds upset, frustrated. Derek knows that tone of voice well, even after this long.

"You're going to be late to your dad's." 

"Not if you tell me now."

There’s a silence in which neither of them make any noises at all aside from breathing.

 

"Fine. There's a rogue pack threatening Hale Territory."

Stiles’ heartbeat skyrockets, his breathing comes quick and Derek can hear him stumbling. He resists the urge to rush over and do- something, he doesn’t know. He’d never been good with stuff like this.

“Stiles, Stiles. Stiles. Stiles.” There’s more rustling noises, footsteps. Argent grunts. He must be moving Stiles who’s wheezing and making these little pathetic gasping noises that break Derek’s heart in two.

It’s a long while before anything makes sound in that room. Stiles wheezes and whimpers. There’s a scratching noise like someone is digging their nails into cloth.

“Oh,” Stiles says and his voice sounds broken. Absolutely broken.

"I'm definitely going to be late to my dad's."

They don’t say anything for a while again. Derek takes a risk and climbs the tree in the neighbor’s backyard. If he climbs out a little… He can see into- Argent’s bedroom? Why are they there?

Argent has his hands cupped to the sides of Stiles’ face. It looks like he’s checking Stiles’ eyes. Derek digs his fingers into the bark of the tree. He wants to go over there and pull Stiles to him, wrap his hands around the boy’s slumped form and promise to keep him safe.

Stiles leans his forehead against Argent’s shoulder and the man rubs one of his hands up and down Stiles’ back, the other one coming up to cup the boy’s head. Argent stares straight ahead and murmurs against Stiles’ head.

 

“There’s about six of them that have been sighted. Three to five more have been scented, though we’re sure at least two of those scents are old enough to belong to omegas that simply passed through coincidentally. So far the scents have remained in neutral areas: near the highways, the main roads, the urban center of the city, and the less frequented edges of the state park. They left their mark this morning or some time last night on a deer at the border between transitory territory and Hale Territory. We’re assuming they’ll follow typical protocol and wait four days for the local pack to organize.”

Stiles raises one of his hands that had, before now, dangled limply between the two of them to fist the side of Argent’s shirt.

“ _Shit,_ ” Stiles says. Derek silently agrees. “And here I thought my biggest problem was that I might have accidentally moved into this dude I’m fucking’s house.” Argent inhales sharply, his hands seem to convulse where they hold Stiles before grabbing Stiles’ shoulders and pushing him away to look at Stiles with a weird look. If it had been anyone else, Derek would have classified the look on Argent’s face as shocked hope. Stiles smiles at Argent.

“Yeah, we need to have a talk soon. Not- not now but soon.” Argent’s face seems to shutter, closing down with a last flash of dreaded- something. Stiles was dating someone else? Stiles was dating someone else and it was _serious._ Why had no one told him? Some rat bastard fucker has _taken Derek’s_ — No. Stiles didn’t belong to Derek anymore. As much is it had hurt, Stiles had ended it and Derek just had to accept that. What he was feeling was just… residual love from when they had been together. Derek just wasn’t prepared for this. He figured… He didn’t know what he had figured. Something stupid and naïve, he’s sure.

This is the point were Stiles runs his hand through Argent’s hair, sliding over the side of his face, resting with his hand cradling his cheek. Argent leans into the touch, closing his eyes with a near-pained look. No.

No.

No.

No. Fucking. Way.

Derek hurled himself in the opposite direction of the Argent household, away from the soft rustle of cloth over cloth and the fluttering beats of nervous hearts.

 

Stiles. He’d smelled _like Stiles_. Just like Allison does because she fucking lives with him. Just like Scott does because they’re the best of fucking friends. Chris Argent smells like Stiles.

How was that even _possible_?

His Stiles.

With an Argent.

His Stiles was _with an Argent._

Somehow this was much worse than just some stranger that Derek had never met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stilinski family dinners are basically always a thing to dread. It's pretty much cannon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't want to write this chapter. Like wow, I just wanted to skip it and move on to the next part but it's fucking necessary... I tell myself as I clutch my dog and weep into his fur. He's very confused and a little concerned and wonders if I'm going to eat my pizza crust. Fuck yes, I am. 
> 
> Special shout-out to lauraby for showing me the new world of disturbinating. I'm telling you now, it's just going to get worse. I can tell by your icon that you're very attached to Sterek. You should just leave. Pack up your hopes and dreams and leave because I will crush them and laugh about it. Laugh about it in my bright pink bikini beenie. It will look ridiculous and you will be ashamed of being destroyed by someone such as me.

**Stiles is an hour late** to his father’s house. Pulling up in the driveway, he sends both a thought of thanks and damnation to Scott for being considerate enough to text his dad that he was going to be late. Ever since he moved out, he’s felt weird walking into his childhood home. It all looks exactly the same. The scuff next to the front door where Stiles crashed his scooter Christmas day in third grade is still there.  The scorch marks on the ceiling in the entry way where Stiles had that incident with the illegal bottle rockets. Even the chip in the plaster next to the stairs at the same height as Stiles’ head is there from when Derek had—

He finds his dad sitting on the couch, chewing on what looks to be his third slice of pizza, watching Die Hard. Stiles takes a big, fortifying breath, and levers himself off of the elevated tiles the entry way is signified with. He thanks all of the things merciful in the world that he keeps a few canes at Chris’. (He has about fifteen of them because Stiles is fly like that and also because he has a habit of breaking them.)

When he sits down on the couch next to his dad, he stares at the design on the cane. This one is particularly beautiful. That’s why Stiles leaves it at Chris’. He’s much less likely to break them at Chris’. He traces his thumbnail through the swirly carvings in the cane, hunched over and possibly still a little wane from the news earlier.

“What’s wrong?” His dad mutes the TV and sets his slice of pizza down on the box he was eating straight out of.  Stiles grips the handle of his cane tightly, feeling the handle’s shape imprint into his skin. He twists his wrist and twists his mouth, the squeak of his skin rubbing against the polish of the handle promulgating his inner-turbulence.

“There’s a few things.” His dad wipes his hands on his jeans and takes a big breath. Stiles knows where he gets that from, at least.

“One has to do with Chris and me, one has to do with the town.” Stiles presses his forehead into his cane handle, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch his dad’s hand fist at the mention of Chris.

“Start with the town,” he says in a flat, nearly hostile voice.

“There’s a rogue pack in town.”

“That explains what’s been happening to all of our road kill,” his dad says, his voice still flat. Stiles feels a slicing panic in his chest. He hates this. He hates this so much. It’s too soon for this to happen again. (A part of Stiles whispers that it will always be too soon.)

“We’re thinking somewhere between nine and twelve of them, confirmed sightings: six of. “

“We? Who is ‘we’?” His dad shoots him a suspicious look and Stiles feels a lump in his throat that consists of every one of his memories of last time. Of the ‘we’ his dad thinks he’s speaking of.

“Chris heard it from Derek, then spent all of today confirming what he heard.”

“Have you spoken to Derek?”

“Dad! Not the time.” His dad shakes his head.

“If this- if this is going to happen again then it certainly is the time. Stiles,” his dad reaches over and lays a gentle hand on Stiles’ right knee. It hurts. Even the light pressure of his dad’s hand feels like burning. “If I’m going to get you back from this the same way I got you back the last time… “

Stiles shakes his hand and swallows down the bile that rises in his throat. He isn’t going to throw up. He isn’t going to vomit all over his dad’s pizza. He just isn’t…. he tells himself in the hopes that it will make it true.

“I’m not, no. It’s not… that, anymore. I haven’t spoken to Derek in, like, a year.  Maybe longer.” His dad relaxes a miniscule amount; the pinched expression on his face losing some of the panic that etched it there so strongly.

“And what about Chris?” Stiles takes a deep breathe, closing his eyes, and teethes at the uptake at the back of the handle on his cane. He doesn’t want to do this. Well, he wants to but he doesn’t. This would be so much easier if- no, not going there.

“It’s that time.” His dad raises an eyebrow of imperious disbelief.

“What time?” Stiles glares at his dad before flopping back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling and massaging the thigh above his right knee, unconsciously tracing the web of scarring that radiates out from it.

“I don’t know. I told him we needed to talk. There’s only two ways it will go from there: disbandment or becoming serious. What we’re doing now is just this… like limbo thing inbetween what we agreed upon and inching our way into totally negating the verbal contract we had. I’m pretty sure he- I-“ Stiles looks at his father and the failing mask of thunderous disapproval there.

“I know you want me to be supportive of you and I know that I lose major points for this but I hope it’s disbandment. He’s not good for you, Stiles.”

This is why Stiles had let it go so long, had let them escalate quietly in denial. He doesn’t want to go through this again with his dad. It took them so long to get to a point where they wouldn’t fight about this.

“It’s not going to end well for you two, son, and you know it. He’s _my age_. His daughter is _older_ than you.” Stiles nods. This is all going to go horribly. It was better before it got this far, back when they could actually say that they were just friends with pervy benefits. “His daughter went to _high school_ with you. I work with him. I’ve seen relationships like this before. It’s not good, Stiles.”

 

“I know dad, I know. You can’t really tell me anything I don’t know about it. But…” Stiles looks at his dad and he knows he looks pathetic. “I _like_ him, dad. I know this is the end and I’ve known it was coming for a while but… it doesn’t make it-“ Stiles face crumples and he presses his hand flatly against his leg. Wow, does it hurt today. 

His dad sighs in a forlorn manner and pulls Stiles into a hug. The angle is awkward and Stiles has to twist himself uncomfortably to avoid angering his knee but he presses his face against his dad’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut. He isn’t going to cry over something as stupid as this.  He knew it was going to happen. He knew it was going to end like this. It’s not like with Derek where- Stiles bites his lip and breathes several deep breathes.

“I know you see- something in him. I don’t know what, but for some reason you thought it was a good idea but you have to realize that no good would come from him.”

For an interminable moment, they stay like that, Stiles biting his lip hard and trying not to cry over a doomed relationship that was more an arrangement than anything romantic at the start of it. How did he let it get like this?

 

Stiles pushes his dad away gently with a (not watery) smile and turns to the TV. His dad leans over and picks up his half eaten slice, offering Stiles a piece from the box. Stiles accepts it and they quietly watch the rest of Die Hard in peace, talking instead about work or classes or the never-ending war the Stilinskis have with the night clerks at the Albertson’s.  

 

 

Scott’s car is still outside the Argent’s house when Stiles gets back at eleven thirty. The ground floor is quiet except for the sound of Stiles throwing his keys onto the kitchen counter. He snags his phone charger (the spare Chris bought him months ago when he kept forgetting it for days on end) and hobbles to the bottom of the stairs. The big breath Stiles takes doesn’t make it any easier but lets him stall the climbing. He stuffs the phone charger into his pocket and firmly plants his cane on the first step, griping the banister tight with his other hand.

He can hear low talking coming from upstairs over the sinister creak of the banister as Stiles uses it to practically drag himself up the stairs. He’s about one third of the way up when he hears a door open. Scott treads to the top of the stairs in the dark and looks down at Stiles.

“Hey, man.” Stiles grunts because talking right now is seriously not going to be an option. Scott watches him for the time it takes Stiles to make it up two steps. He’s learned by now not to ask if Stiles needs help.  When he’s almost three-fifths of the way up, Scott sits down at the top and leans his head back against the wall to watch Stiles.

“Are you OK?” Stiles manages to spit out a “No” as he climbs yet another fucking step. 

“It’s different this time, you know that, right? It’s not… that’s not going to happen to you again.” Stiles glares up at Scott because really? Does he really think _now_ is a good time to talk about this? Scott looks guilty, averting his eyes and turning his head so most of it is in shadows. Stiles concentrates on how the moonlight filters through the window and catches on Scott instead of dwelling on what happened.

Scott sits there silently, watching Stiles as he finishes climbing the stairs, only slightly out of breath. Stiles stands next to Scott’s feet and prods his leg with his cane.

“It’s OK, man. I’m going to be fine. This is just… too soon.” Scott smiles sadly at Stiles, gripping the midpoint of Stiles’ cane to help himself up to his feet.

“It’s always going to be too soon, though. Isn’t it?” Stiles’ teeth clack shut at that. There are times when Stiles forgets how perceptive Scott can be when he applies himself. “You know I’m fine with it, right? With you and- Chris.”

Stiles snorts because Scott is terrible all the time. Scott pulls him into a loose hug, patting his back.

“Did you just brug me?” Scott grins and steps back from Stiles.

“I had to make up for the tender moment! It was too much for my manliness to take.” Stiles rolls his eyes and lightly swats Scott with his cane.

“Yeah, what miniscule levels of manliness stores you had were drained by that brief conversation about feelings.”

“Yup.” Scott grins, unrepentant.

“Go back to your girlfriend, you hooligan.”

Scott flashes him another grin and bounds down the hall, back into Allison’s room. The door clicks shut and Stiles is left in darkness again. He creeps his way down the hall, leaning heavily on his cane. When he pokes his head inside Chris’ bedroom door he can see the man asleep on his side, breathing deep and even. The moonlight and streetlight from outside casts Chris in highs of soft oranges and vibrant blue hues that both gracefully shade and lovingly light him up. For a moment, Stiles doesn’t know if he can breath. Biting his lip hard, he uses the moonlight to navigate his way into the bathroom.

He brushes his teeth with one hand while plugging in his phone with the other. When he spits, he watches the water rinse away the toothpaste to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. He’s afraid of what he’ll see there, he thinks. Scared to see the tired old cripple that haunts every reflective surface. Stiles tries to lean against the wall, feeling as exhausted as he probably looks. Idly, he sneaks a peak. His face is pale and thin, eyes a little swollen and red, lip ripe from nervous chewing. He can see the pallid wash of near-chronic fatigue all over him.

Right now, he can’t see anything that anyone would want about him. It’s not like he can do the things others his age can. Or what most people can. He can’t go on romantic walks, can’t sit on the inside of booths, can’t curl up with someone (except in very specific positions), can’t wrap his legs around the waist of his lover, can’t kneel or crawl, can’t actively fuck someone save for very rare instances, can’t play sports. For fuck’s sake, Stiles has a wheelchair and a prescription for almost never-ending painkillers. He wakes up from nightmares at least once a week. Stiles couldn’t even begin to count how many times he’d woken up, half-shouting and struggling in terror. He’s left _bruises_ on Chris before from night terrors. 

With a big breath in, Stiles tries to pull off his own pants. Most days he can do this. He has to brace himself on the bathroom counter and toe them off very, very slowly. The bright lights of the bathroom illuminate  how pathetic he really is starkly. He leaves them on the floor because he’s really not going to mess with bending over to pick them up. Chris’ll put them on the hamper tomorrow anyway. Stiles maybe feels a little guilty about how much help he needs from Chris, from Allison, from Scott, from his dad, from basically anyone who knows him. He feels like a burden all the time.

He downs a Vicodin in the hopes that it will help him fight the pain off enough to sleep. He should have taken one earlier but he doesn’t like to be on them when he drives.

Turning off the light to the bathroom, he leans his head against the cool wood of the door, concentrating on breathing. He doesn’t know if he can do this. Go out into that room and lay next to Chris like their relationship isn’t dead. It’s a zombie, really. Walking around on broken legs, not realizing it belongs in the ground. He scratches at the wood of the door and tries not to think about how much he wants to go out there.

He wants to go out there and wake Chris up and fuck him slowly, gently into the bed with soft rocking motions and soothing touches. He wants to straddle Chris and kiss him, wants to feel Chris’ mouth on him, sliding down his body, mouthing at the sensitive spot where thigh meets groin until Stiles feels burnt from the friction of stubble and dry lips while his heels dig into Chris’ back. But he can’t do any of that. Stiles is crippled. Physically incapable. Mutilated beyond repair. He digs his fingers into the soft flesh of his right thigh and concentrates on the pain while his sensations deaden from painkillers. Everything slowly becomes cotton ball muzzy.

With his stomach trying to claw its way up his throat, Stiles opens the door and limps his way over to the bed, cane a dead albatross in his hand thumping out his mistakes on the hardwood floor.

It’s physically impossible for Stiles to crawl into a bed anymore so instead he ops for sliding in slowly next to Chris and wrapping his arms around his sleeping form. Chris’ arms come up to wrap around Stiles in return as he turns to bury his head against Stiles’ chest.

“H’w’d i’go?” Chris’ voice is adorably sleep slurred and it’s really not fair. Instead of answering, Stiles kisses the top of Chris’ head and runs his fingers up and down his spine.

“Tha’ bad, huh?” Chris bends his head back slowly and kisses the bottom of Stiles’ chin before burrowing back in against his chest. It doesn’t feel dead to him. It should, he knows, but it doesn’t feel like he’s in a relationship that’s at its end.  He cups Chris’ jaw and pulls his face up to kiss him with everything he’s got. Chris’ hands clutch sleepily at Stiles’ T-shirt over his chest when he sluggishly responds.

Maybe with a little inner hysteria, Stiles pushes on Chris’ shoulder until he rolls onto his back, moving with him so he doesn’t have to stop kissing him. Chris lets out a slightly less sleepy than before grunt and repositions his arms around Stiles’ neck.

He has his hand down the front of Chris’ pajama pants before he even thinks about doing it.

Chris gasps, much more awake than before, and arches into it as Stiles palms his balls. Stiles pecks hard little kisses across Chris’ jaw and down his neck. He slides his bad knee between Chris’ legs and brushes his hip against where his hand is slowly tracing where thigh meets groin. He doesn’t usually do this; the pain stopping him from being able to press himself down into Chris, putting his weight on him so he can feel how heavy and solid Stiles is above him. He’s going to be so sore tonight and tomorrow, aggravating his knee like this but, for the look Chris is giving him, Stiles thinks it’s worth it. Momentarily, immortally, worth it.

His eyes are open and he’s staring up at Stiles with this look like he worships him, eyes wide, mouth parted. These little panting breathes coming out every time Stiles squeezes the head of his dick . He can’t bear to look anymore. He closes his eyes and kisses Chris slowly, as gently as he can. The kiss in exquisite juxtaposition to the quick and hard strokes he levies on Chris’ prick.

A grunting noise escapes Chris while they’re kissing like he’s trying to muffle desperate little whines against Stiles’ mouth. When he pushes in, he finds Chris’ tongue thrusting up against the roof of his mouth with every desperate sound.

Stiles knows what that flat, thirsty tongue feels like moving against the head of his dick, ululating against his balls, crossing his chest, belly, and back in rasping paths, coarsely lapping at his asshole. For a moment, it seems as if Stiles could feel muted phantoms of each of those moments crawling across him, telling him all of these things without words that Chris has been trying to tell him. For a moment, Stiles is afraid that tongue is trying to hold back more than simple carnal cries but proclamations that cannot be. So Stiles pulls back and averts his eyes down to where Chris is twisting his hips and thrusting shallowly up into his fist. The little noises become louder, accompanied by the sound of bed sheet against bed sheet as Chris’ feet tangle with the blankets.

It isn’t any better. It still feels too overwhelming for him.

Chris wriggles and squirms, his legs alternating bending up high enough to brush against Stiles’ upper arms. Stiles is forced to chase after his dick. It wiggles back and forth, grazing against the fabric of Stiles’ boxers. He laughs because dicks really shouldn’t be this elusive.

When he catches it again, Chris now settled so Stiles is nestled much more comfortably between his legs, Stiles glances up at him, crooked grin on his face. Stiles can see Chris’ pupils dilate, can hear the way his intake of breath whistles between his teeth.  His hand clenches reflexively around the prize from his brief dick hunt. Chris’ body _literally undulates_ from head to toe under him. Stiles forgets how to breathe. His mouth suddenly hurts, he’s salivated so hard at the sight and feel that he feels like he’s spent the past two hours blowing up balloons.

Stiles stoops down and sucks a bruising kiss onto Chris’ shoulder, dragging his lips and tongue and teeth down his chest and across his nipple when he finishes. Chris’ hands clutch at Stiles’ back and the only noises in the room are his panting little moans, the slide of Stiles’ fist around his cock, and the wet sounds his mouth makes as he sucks on Chris’ collarbone, cupping the delicate bone with his tongue. Soothing, soothing as best he can. When Chris moves a little too abruptly, breathes too quickly, pushes up against his mouth, Stiles’ teeth lightly graze the flesh stretched over that vulnerable place.

All the air pushes out of Chris’ lungs when he comes. He shakes, hands digging blunt nails into Stiles’ shirt across his back while Stiles strokes him through it, alternately nuzzling into the crook of Chris’ neck and licking across the stubble under his jaw.

 

Stiles lays himself on his side, carefully positioning his right knee and stares down at where his hand is tracing shapes through Chris’ come. Chris is still breathing heavily, his stomach jumping up and down under Stiles’ hand. He feels his face relax, the last tension in it bleeding out onto the floor at the way Chris’ belly looks so soft and curved between the twin peaks of his hipbones.

Chris rests a lethargic hand against Stiles’ back awkwardly, that arm effectively trapped there under Stiles’ weight. His eyes are languid as he looks up at him. Lightly, Stiles presses the flat of his hand against Chris’ stomach, just below his bellybutton and drops small kisses on Chris’ face. His lips feel chafed. Chris brings his free hand up and tangles his fingers with Stiles’ on his sweaty and dirty stomach. He looks peaceful and beautiful in the moonlight, staring down with an oddly empty look at their hands. Part of Stiles feels shattered by that look.

Eventually, Chris rolls onto his side, bringing their joined hands together to rest against his chest after a quick kiss across Stiles’ knuckles and buries his face in the triangle between Stiles’ neck, shoulder, and the bed. Effectively nudging Stiles into a more comfortable position on his back. Chris tugs his hand out from beneath Stiles and cups their linked hands against his chest (over his heart but Stiles can’t think on that. No, that would be too much).

Stiles slides his left arm under Chris and uses that to pull him closer. It takes a while for him to fall asleep. Listening to Chris’ breathing, he’s terrified that if he closes his eyes he’ll wake up alone.

In more sense than one of the word.

The last thing he remembers doing is burying his nose in Chris’ hair and inhaling deeply. He can’t say what it smells like except hair and sweat but it’s a little soothing nonetheless to feel the soft brush of Chris’ hair against his face. He keeps his eyes open and stares at all of the shadows in the room, daring them to come and sully this.  

**  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is glad he isn't the only one who disapproves of Stiles' choice in bedmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is shorter than the last but fear not, I'm already working on the next one. (I kind of 'write a chapter, skip a chapter, write a chapter, write skipped chapter, repeat' with this story...) 
> 
> ****Important! I've gone through and done some major editing of earlier chapters. If you've read them before this past Sunday, the sixteenth, then I'd suggest going back and rereading them BEFORE reading this chapter.****
> 
> On a more ominous note: I've finally decided on what to do for the external conflict and you people are just going to hate me. Absolutely hate me. This is going to get wonderfully awful. //evil laugh.

**Around the time Derek is vaulting his seventh fence,** he realizes that this is probably one of those things that Isaac would disapprove of. For a moment, Derek slows but the sounds of Stiles’ jeep taking the turn onto the road his dad lives on causes him to speed back up. He just needs to figure out what has happened to Stiles since the last time he saw him. Even if it is from a distance, Stiles is still part of the pack and, as Alpha, Derek needs to be able to look out for the entirety of his pack. Maybe especially those members who have strayed the farthest from the safety of the group.

With this resolution in mind, Derek sets himself comfortably against the side of the house, sitting against the wall behind the Stilinski privacy fence. He may be here a bit.

For a few moments, the only sounds are that of the movie playing on the TV.

“What’s wrong?” The TV mutes followed by some rustling noises. There’s the squeak of sweaty hands against wood. Stiles twisting his grip around his cane? Derek vaguely remembers Stiles having that habit.

“There’s a few things.” Sheriff Stilinski takes a deep breathe at this news as if he can read more into the four words than Derek can decipher.

“One has to do with Chris and me, one has to do with the town.”

Silence. Derek shifts uncomfortably at the casual mention of Stiles’ relationship with the eldest Argent. His dad knew about it? Derek would think that the Sheriff wouldn’t let something like that fly.

“Start with the town.” Stilinski sounds just about as hostile about the thought of Stiles and Argent as Derek does. Derek feels a thrill of vindication at that.

“There’s a rogue pack in town.”

“That explains what’s been happening to all of our road kill.” Derek would be surprised at Stilinski making a joke out of the situation but he is Stiles’ father, after all. Stiles’ heartbeat quickens momentarily, his breathe rattling in his lungs a little. Derek can sympathize with that.

“We’re thinking somewhere between nine and twelve of them, confirmed sightings: six of.” Sometimes Derek forgets how strong and in-control Stiles can sound. As if he were born to command legions and handle all the dire things in the world far better than other people ever could. Derek thinks Stiles could have made a grand Merlin in a past life. Some sorcerer of knowledge and secrets, standing loyally by the side of his Arthur.

“We? Who is ‘we’?”

“Chris heard it from Derek, then spent all of today confirming what he heard.” Derek doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to Stiles calling Argent Chris. Not after all the bad blood the pack and the hunter had between them. Though, maybe he should have expected some kind of truce. Stiles was far too practical to leave the Argents alone when basically all of his friends were werewolves. Maybe that’s where this… thing they have between them came from? Maybe it’s all just some deranged arrangement. Stiles is the kind to sacrifice himself for the good of everyone else.

“Have you spoken to Derek?” His hands clench against his legs at the sound of his own name and the sheer disapproval in Sheriff Stilinski’s voice.

“Dad! Not the time.”

“If this- if this is going to happen again then it certainly is the time. Stiles, if I’m going to get you back from this the same way I got you back the last time…”

Memories of last time swarm Derek, blood rushing through his ears so quickly that for a few seconds he isn’t sure he could hear anything if it were said. _He remembers Stiles’ laugh. The sound of twigs breaking. The smell of Hale land and strange wolves. Stiles walking with a stranger. Everything blurs… Screaming… blood… the popping of joints… so much blood… the wet sound of bones breaking… howls… Rage…All he can think is ‘Get away. Get away. Mine. Mine! MINE!”…Panting… Sobbing… The taste of blood… the sweet scent of infection… Everything he loves burns, burns,burns, he destroys it all… Screaming… Screaming.Screamingscreamingscreaming--_

Derek’s fingers dig sharpened and elongated nails into his own thigh. He’s the one breathing heavy for once. Gods, what an awful day.

“I’m not, no. It’s not… that, anymore. I haven’t spoken to Derek in, like, a year.  Maybe longer.” Derek feels a pang of longing and regret at that. It had been so long.

“And what about Chris?” There’s the sound of breathing, Stiles’ fidgeting, someone teething at varnished wood.

“It’s that time.” Derek wonders if he missed some part of the conversation when he’d been lost inside himself.

“What time?” There’s a soft thudding noise that Derek is pretty sure was caused by Stiles. Vaguely, he’s pleased he isn’t the only one who can’t keep up with Stiles-talk.

“I don’t know. I told him we needed to talk. There’s only two ways it will go from there: disbandment or becoming serious. What we’re doing now is just this… like limbo thing inbetween what we agreed upon and inching our way into totally negating the verbal contract we had. I’m pretty sure he- I-” A thrill of (maybe petty) hope rushes through him. He doesn’t even need to break them up. The two seem to be coming naturally to the end of this aberrant relationship on their own. All he had to do was wait… and get Stiles to not run in the opposite direction when he saw him.

“I know you want me to be supportive of you and I know that I lose major points for this but I hope it’s disbandment. He’s not good for you, Stiles.” _Go, Mister Stilinski_ , Derek thinks.

“It’s not going to end well for you two, son, and you know it. He’s my age. His daughter is older than you. His daughter went to high school with you. I work with him. I’ve seen relationships like this before. It’s not good, Stiles.”

Derek leans his head back against the wall in satisfaction. If they don’t split on their own then Derek thinks that Stilinski will see to it.

“I know dad, I know. You can’t really tell me anything I don’t know about it. But… I like him, dad.” Blood roars through Derek’s ears at that. “…is the end and I’ve known it was coming for a while but- it doesn’t make it-“ Stiles’ heartbeat races again, his breathing coming in stunted intakes and quick exhalations. Sheriff Stilinski sighs heavily and there’s more rustling. He must have moved to comfort Stiles.

“I know you see- something in him. I don’t know what, but for some reason you thought it was a good idea but you have to realize that no good would come from him.”

It’s silent for a long time after that, the only sounds the neighborhood settling in for the night, Stiles’ breathing evening out, and his dad’s breathing matching up with his. Come half an hour later when the movie is turned back on, Derek thinks that Stiles must be staying there for the rest of the night and leaves, the conversations echoing around in his head.

 

Derek has to go out and see if he can sniff out any more of this rogue pack that’s threatening his territory anyway. He finds it funny that this pack comes ‘round just about when the reconstruction on his ancestral home is almost finished. The timing almost feels on purpose. 

Then there was this scent that seemed to slowly be circling something in town, spiralling inward. Derek hopes he doesn't have one of those man-eating packs on his hands. It's bad enough when they just kill things. Eating parts would just raise far too many questions. The worse part was the scent was vaguely familiar and that only meant one thing: Derek had met them before. He hoped just in passing, he really did. He didn't want to be the center of another campaign of personalized attacks.

Not after Kate.

It's too soon for something like that to happen again. 

Part of him whispers that it will always be too soon, the damage from what she did never-healing and always sore. It hurts so much all the time and Derek can't help this ever-present sence of absolute anger at her, at himself, at everyone who still has family, at the world at large. 

No, he doesn't think he could handle it if some long gone lover came back to attempt to destroy him and all of the people he's come to care for.


	7. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically: sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much just sex. There's a reason for it, don't worry. Not like you people were going to worry about free porn but, hey, sometimes people like plot as much as me.  
> Also: possibly the longest chapter yet.
> 
> High score?

**Stiles leg announces its presence** with a sudden dull pain that drags him out of sleep. There’s a weight on his chest, he can smell a musky sort of gardenia scent and Chris’ thigh rubs across the top of his left leg. His knee bumps Stiles’ bad leg for what is probably not the first time and Stiles knows why he’s awake now. Stiles can feel where Chris’ pajama pants have bunched up above his calf on the leg pressed from knee down into Stiles’ left leg. The soft yellow of morning light has crept across the bed to warm the sheets in a pleasant, almost professional manner. Stiles feels like toast, just warmed enough to be comfy and delicious. Chris is drooling on Stiles’ chest.

He’s supremely glad he doesn’t have to rush out of bed this morning. He just wishes his leg didn’t hurt so much. Looking over at the nightstand, Stiles can see his morning pillbox and a bottle of water. Chris was an angel, an absolute, legitimate, certifiable angel. 

Leaning closer to the table as much as he can without disturbing Chris, Stiles stretches his right arm up as much as he can. He can snag the box but the bottle is just out of reach. Grunting and straining, he can just _barely_ graze the bottle with a finger. Chris kisses his neck to let Stiles know that he was awake. Or maybe just to kiss him. Stiles really wouldn’t know unless he looked. He’s not sure he wants to.

“Want me to get that for you?” Chris sounds amused, Stiles reconsiders that certificate of angel-ocity. Chris’ leg slides over Stiles, repositioning so that Chris has his knee planted between Stiles’ legs.  His hand pushes the mattress down next to Stiles’ head as he stretches over him and it reminds Stiles of far less innocent endeavors in similar positions. Momentarily, all Stiles can see is Chris’ chest above him. He really can’t help palming his pectoral, sliding his hand down his sternum, across his stomach, and gripping his waist.

Chris sits back on his legs, straddling Stiles’ left leg. He holds out the bottle to Stiles with a playful quirk to his face.  Stiles sits up and scoots back a little, feeling Chris’ pajamas brush against his legs as he moves. He sticks a couple pills to his tongue and swallows down half the bottle of water. Chris rubs his hands up and down Stiles’ stomach.

While Stiles is distracted putting the bottle back on the table, Chris repositions himself so he’s straddling Stiles. He continues rubbing his hands up and down Stiles’ stomach, looking sleep-rumpled and possibly a little cute.

Just above where his thighs rest against Stiles, Chris’ hands still on Stiles’ hips and knead little circles into the soft flesh there. Stiles licks his lips and fingers Chris’ knees where they bend. Chris leans over like that, hands pressing strong fingers into Stiles, and kisses him. Chris’ mouth is cottony dry and Stiles can feel where his thighs flex to balance him in this position. Stiles slides his hands over the taught muscles in Chris’ thighs, over his hips (pausing briefly to squeeze), and over his sides to spread his fingers over his shoulder blades.

They stay like that for a while, licking away each other’s morning breath, until Chris slides his knees farther apart, lowering himself until he’s sitting on Stiles’ groin. He can’t help the deep inhalation through his nose when he can feel the warmth of Chris’ balls pressing down on him like that, the shape of his ass spread above Stiles’ cock. _Shit._

Stiles runs his hand down Chris’ back, feeling the strength and control those bunched muscles portray. For a moment, he nudges his fingers along the band of his pajamas. Chris flexes down against Stiles, grazing his ass against him. Bending his left knee and planting his foot on the bed, Stiles pushes his fingers past the elastic. He kisses Stiles’ chin, across his jaw, down his neck. Chris’ whiskers rub deliciously across Stiles’ skin. He digs his fingers into Chris’ ass, pulling him down and using his planted foot to push up. Chris makes a high-pitched noise and pulls back, panting, from Stiles.

Kneeling above Stiles, Chris looks down at him with this resolute face. Something about it terrifies Stiles.

They stay like that for a too-long moment. Chris’ hair is mussed, sticking up on one side, flattened on the other. There’s a violently red splotch on his shoulder, just below the crook of his neck. It looks wrong and somehow perfect on him. Stiles reaches up a hand, rubbing his thumb against it like he might be able to rub his blemish off. Chris leans into it, closing his eyes and holding Stiles’ hand there. Stiles licks his lips again. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, what he’s saying without speaking. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s talking about Chris or himself. He takes in a deep breath, preparing to speak. What he’s going to say, he doesn’t even know. Chris’ face flashes with panic before he bends back down and seals his dry lips over Stiles’ wet ones.

Chris moves in a familiar way, leaning more into the kiss and balancing sideways. Stiles knows he’s reaching into the nightstand drawer. A thrill shoots through Stiles when Chris leans back, drops the bottle of lube and a condom on the bed and starts tugging Stiles’ boxers off. Chris’ eyes are travelling down Stiles body, following the path his hands had taken to undress Stiles. Irrationally, Stiles is seized with panic. He cups Chris’ neck and pulls him up to press his lips against the rough tingle of stubble on his cheek.

He knows it’s stupid but he doesn’t know if he can help it. Stiles doesn’t want Chris to see it like this. Just like this, when they’re in bed together. It feels dirty and rude for Stiles to subject Chris to the raised pink and purpled skin of his knee. Like talking about an ex in front of a date except worse. Much worse. Chris has seen his leg before many, many, many times in many different situations. Hell, he was there the day it happened when Stiles had been wheeled into the ER, had watched Stiles scream and claw at the ground a month after when he’d first tried to escape his wheelchair, when he had attempted to drag himself into the woods to become the corpse he felt he was.

Chris drags stubbled kiss after stubbled kiss down Stiles’ body like he’s pressing apology after apology into his flesh. Stiles doesn’t even know what he’d have to apologize for but he forgives the man anyway, running his fingers through his soft hair. He bites a hard kiss into Stiles’ inner thigh, right below the line between groin and leg, leaning his weight into it. Stiles arches off the bed a little, his fingers clenching in Chris’ hair. When he looks down, Chris has managed to wriggle out of his pants. He hands Stiles the lube and holds his hand flat in a silent request while he mouths whiskery kisses across his thigh.

The hand disappears from view and Chris makes a muffled little noise with his mouth pressed into Stiles’ hip. He’s fingering himself.

_Fuck._

Chris is fingering himself and licking tingling trails around Stiles’ groin. Stiles pushes his head back into the pillows for a moment because, damn, that image was too much before propping himself up on one elbow and reaching down the other arm to comb reverently through Chris’ hair.

This is ridiculous. It has to be. There’s no way that it’s legal to wake up to something this hot. Chris is nuzzling his balls, his whiskers rubbing against sensitive flesh, every so often lightly grazing his thighs. Stiles can see his shoulder moving, the muscles in his arm flexing as he fucks himself on his own hand. So. Not. Fair. Stiles bites his lip and wishes he could reach more of Chris. He wants to touch so much.

Chris licks a scorching line up Stiles’ cock. “Condom,” he says and maybe it would make sense if he hadn’t just scrambled Stiles’ brains before speaking. He mouths at the base of Stiles’ dick, right above his balls and Stiles takes a shuddering breath. “Open the condom, Stiles.” He lets out a short laugh against Stiles’ balls before nuzzling them again.

“Right. On it. I can totally do that.”

Dryly, Chris mutters, “I believe in you,” before gently scraping stubble above Stiles’ femoral artery. _Ffffuck._ Stiles’ hand clenches over the foil wrapper and he uses his teeth to open it because there’s no fucking way he’s going to fumble over the damn packaging right now. Chris flicks an amused look up at Stiles. His arm flexes shortly after. He lets out a sigh, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead on Stiles’ hip, breathing circular breathes. In the nose, out the mouth, in the nose, out the mouth… Stiles doesn’t even have to look to know that Chris just pushed a third finger in.

He sits there and waits, watches the light movements of Chris’ body as he moves his hand inside himself, listens to the birds chirping outside, Chris’ controlled breathing, the light rustle of sheets.

Chris lifts his head up, rests his chin on Stiles’ hip. His face is flushed, pinkening skin creeping out over his cheekbones, over his jaw, even his lips look a little like they’re blushing. Stiles will spend the rest of his perverted life thanking whatever beings will listen that Chris loves being fucked so much. It helps that he looks so damned beautiful like this. Stiles isn’t even sure he can look away from him. He’s not even sure if he remembers how to breathe right now.

“Put it on.” Chris smiles up at him, lays a kiss on Stiles’ hip.

“Oh, yes. Ok. I can do that too. This is Stiles, fully capable of things man.”

It takes him longer than he’d like but he does manage, eventually, to roll that slippery fucker on. Chris kisses his thigh while he does it, trailing light, dry touches of lip on skin.

When Chris crawls up his body, Stiles can’t help but look, hypnotized by the way his muscles flex, his arms bend, his stomach crunches. He’s hovering above Stiles’ body, thighs resting against Stiles’ thighs, staring intently down at his dick like putting a little more lube on Stiles is the most important thing ever. Stiles can’t really help the near tentative, half reverential adoration he instills in Chris’ name when he says it in moments like this, alone with the man and nothing but the cloying carnality of their bodies speaking to excuse the emotions Stiles accidentally projects into his and Chris’ every action. It’s the only way he can excuse how he wants to say Chris’ name over and over again like some twisted little prayer.

Chris squeezes Stiles’ dick and leans over to kiss him; quick and- and a little bit urgent, like he can’t bear the way Stiles says his name. He shuffles up Stiles’ body a little more, plants a hand next to Stiles’ head on the pillow and-

_“Yessssss, Chris. Oh, you’re so- yessss.”_

He always puts on less lube than Stiles would. Stiles prefers himself to be near dripping with it, prefers the slick slide of flesh in flesh and the wet noises it makes. He’d asked once why Chris seemed to prefer this way and his heart could barely take the way he’d averted his eyes, heat creeping up and over his jaw, flowering on his cheeks, when he’d said he liked the friction, liked to be able to feel it after.

Stiles couldn’t say that after this long he hadn’t grown a taste for it as well.

Chris has his face pressed against Stiles’ shoulder, shaking his head back and forth. His scruff rubs perfectly against Stiles’ neck and shoulder. He moves his body up once- Twice… sighs, slides the flat of his hand up Stiles’ belly, over his ribs, spreads his fingers out over Stiles’ pectoral and pushes himself down on Stiles’ cock as far as he will go.  A muffled noise like a half sobbed moan escapes where Chris has his mouth pressed firmly into Stiles.

In a perfect moment like this, Stiles can admit it. Admit that he finds reasons to say Chris’ name whenever he can, especially when he’s not there; as if saying his name will reassure Stiles of something… something he won’t admit. He feels a bit like a missionary: muttering their god’s name over and over again to bring themselves the solace of knowing – _knowing_ -

He says his name when he rises up. He says it when he can feel his cock disappearing into his ass. He says it when he rolls his hips. He says it when he grinds his ass down onto him. He says it twice when he lets out this tiny little whisper of a scream. He says it when he grips him by the hair and pulls him away from where he was hiding his face against his shoulder. He says it when he stares up into his frightened eyes. He says it when he strokes his fingers down his face. He says it right before he pulls him down to kiss him so he doesn’t have to see that shattered look.

After a while he thinks he’s not saying it for himself anymore but for the beautiful creature with its hands planted on his chest, riding his cock like it’s the most right thing in all of the world to do.

He slides his hands up Chris’ thighs, feeling the wiry hair under his hands. He can feel the way Chris’ thighs flex under his hands, can feel the tensing and lengthening of his muscles as he bounces on Stiles’ dick. When he slides his hands up to Chris’ hips: he can feel the way they tilt and shift, roll and, every once in a while, jerk. One hand he keeps there, the other climbs its way up Chris’ side (his obliques stretch and crunch beautifully under his hand), to palm his nipple. Stiles likes the way the tiny little pink things harden under the sensitive skin of his taught palm. Loves the blush that darkens on Chris’ chest when he runs his hand across his chest to reach the other.

“Chris… Chrisss… Chris, t-touch yourself, Chris.”

He stops halfway up Stiles’ cock, clenches around him. Stiles hisses out Chris’ name, eyes sliding halfway shut. He can still see the way Chris’ whole body tenses at that. Would have to be blindfolded not to see the roil of tension through him. Stiles can feel the droplets of precome on his stomach that Chris’ dick has leaked.

“Yessss, do it. Chris. I want to see you. I want to see you- _Chris_. I want to-“

And fuck, if Stiles isn’t beyond saving. He’s fine like this. He can live in this type of hell.

He sits down all the way on Stiles’ cock, his hips moving in little micro-rolls, and fists his dick for Stiles. He’s beautiful. The way his eyes shut almost all the way. He bites his lip and frowns a little once he gets into it. The little gasps he gives when Stiles palms his balls are perfect. Even the little circles of his hips that flash through Stiles in a syrupy pleasurable sensation are perfect.

Chris’ dick is drooling precome now, every once in a while the quick motion of his hand flicks some of it off onto Stiles. Each drop is like a small shock of reality. Stiles periodically thrusts up into Chris simply to hear the intake of breathe it causes.

“Yes, come on, Chris. You can do it. I want to see you come like this.”

Stiles wraps his hands around Chris’ hips in a strong grip and moves them, thrusts in small jerks upward while grinding Chris down into it.

“Can’t you feel me inside of you? Chris. Come on. You look so beautiful right now. Do it. Chris. Chris. Fuck, Chris, _come already._ ”

Chris’ breathes are coming in little hitching sounds, his ass is convulsing around Stiles. He tightens his grip even more on Chris’ hip with one hand, the other reaching back to grab Chris’ ass. He uses his grip to help pull himself up. He kisses Chris. It’s all lips and soft with just the small hint of tongue flicking against that delightful bottom lip of his the way he knows Chris likes.

“Come on,” He sucks Chris’ bottom lip into his mouth.

“Come for me.” Stiles licks the corner of Chris’ gasping mouth.

“I know you wanna-.” He softly kisses Chris’ upper lip.

“It’s OK. Chris… Chris. Chris.” Stiles rubs the tip of his tongue across Chris’ cupid’s bow and the man shakes as he comes. Hot streaks of come land on Stiles’ sternum, drip down onto his stomach. He rests a moment with his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder, breathing ragged breathes with his hands clutching at Stiles’ back.

Stiles runs his hands up and down Chris’ spine, tracing the shape of his ass, making little circles with his fingers over the sensitive places that make Chris twitch. He knows them all by now. Knows that if he lightly drags his nails across the flat of Chris’ back, right above his ass, he’ll twitch and wriggle his hips. Knows that the crease between ass and thigh are sensitive and he can make Chris laugh by running his fingers along it. Knows that Chris hates having his ribs tickled but loves it when Stiles tickles his stomach. Stiles knows all these things and more.

Chris pulls himself off of Stiles’ dick with a languid wince. He strips the condom off of Stiles in one smooth motion and tosses it into the little trash they started keeping by the bed. Stiles grabs the foil wrapper he abandoned on the bed and the bottle of lube and sets them on the nightstand or in the trash, respectively.

He isn’t expecting it at all is the problem. Stiles didn’t even know Chris could move that fast after orgasm but there he is on his knees between Stiles’ legs, sucking dry kissing into the side of his cock. Stiles’ hands clench in the sheets and he can feel his chest expand and contract. Chris has his tongue wrapped around Stiles’ dick, his open mouth breathing hot air onto the part his tongue can’t reach. Stiles can feel the flex of his supporting arm against his right leg and Chris’ elbow digs in a way that really shouldn’t be pleasant into his left thigh. And he looks up at Stiles. Like that. While he’s licking like some hungry- something (Stiles doesn’t have complete access to his vocabulary right now) at his dick.

“Ffffuck. Chris.” Stiles raises a shaky hand from the twist of blankets he’d had them in to bury in Chris’ hair when his mouth covers the head of Stiles’ cock. He sighs out his name again and pushes on his head when he feels Chris’ tongue inch along his dick, dragging his mouth farther and farther down with every bob of his head. Chris’ free hand wraps strong fingers around the base, his thumb rubbing almost absently up and down in time with the strokes of his tongue.

Stiles can hear Chris’ uneven breathes through his nose, the sucking noises his mouth makes, the light chirp of birds getting louder. From here, he can see the curve of Chris’ spine and the almost heart shape his ass takes when he’s on his knees like this. Stiles wants to touch his thighs, feel the way the muscles are tensed there, run his fingers up the tendon in his knees, kiss the firm curve of Chris’ ass, lick that crease between thigh and cheek.

Chris’ thumb swipes across his balls and Stiles’ toes curl. His tongue convulses then flexes, flicking at the corona. Judging from the slight smirk and the way Chris watches his face; he knows how much Stiles likes that. He bites his lip while his hips twitch upwards involuntarily. 

Stiles’ world narrows down to the shape of Chris’ body, the sounds of Chris’ mouth, the feel of Chris wherever he touches Stiles. He wants to stay like this forever. Wants to wake up with Chris in his bed every morning. Wants to fall asleep with his arms wrapped around his waist. Wants to pull him close in the kitchen in the mornings and kiss his coffee flavored mouth until his lips buzz. Wants to put his cold hands on Chris’ warm cheeks in the winter and have Chris tell him he should have brought gloves. Wants Chris to call him on his long drives home just to talk. Wants to listen to him complain about gun laws and interstate taxing. Wants to kiss his shoulder, his neck, and whisper inane daily things into his ear while Chris fiddles with this gun or that crossbow in his workshop. Wants to listen to Chris go on and on about Social Distortion or Quiet Riot or even Van Halen. He wants to fight with Chris about radio stations and debate which movie to watch at night. He wants to tease Chris about his secret love of The Violent Femmes and his crush on Jyrki 69.

Stiles wants… Stiles WANTS-

Fuck. He’s going to come.

And he wants to spend-

Chris pulls his mouth off of Stiles and jerks him into his orgasm. Stiles lets out a shaky breath. He can hear Chris’ heavy breathing and the slap of flesh. Chris angles his dick towards his head and- _shhhit-_ He’s coming onto Chris’ face. He’s coming and his ejaculation is landing on Chris’ cheek, his jaw, next to his mouth, on his nose.

He can’t look away. Chris is staring back with wide eyes, like he can’t believe he just did that. Stiles can’t either. Chris crawls up the bed (Stiles can’t take his eyes away from where his come is dripping down Chris’ face) and lightly, carefully, kisses Stiles once. He moves as if he’s going to climb off the bed and Stiles catches his arm, pulls him down.

They’re back in the position they started out the morning in. Stiles on his back, arms around Chris, his chin rests on the top of Chris’ head. Chris’ leg slides across his left thigh, tentatively, he presses closer, rests his head on Stiles’ chest. Stiles can feel the wet of his come between their skin. Chris’ hand slides across his belly and startles when he comes across his own come. Stiles turns a little on his side and pulls Chris closer, slides his hand down Chris’ spine, cups his ass, and closes his eyes.

The sun moves across the bed. Birds chirp and call to each other. Stiles never wants to leave this bed. If he stays here maybe then he doesn’t have to confront—

Chris moves in his arms, stretches himself out against Stiles, presses a kiss to the underside of Stiles’ jaw.

“Breakfast?” Stiles’ hand tightens on Chris’ ass.

“Yeah.” He can feel Chris smile against his neck.

“You’re going to have to let me go.”

Stiles slides his fingers along the cleft of Chris’ ass, skimming across drying lube and the dusting of hair there.

“It can wait, then.” He kisses Chris as deep as he can, hooks his hand not tracing his cleft beneath his thigh and lifts Chris’ left leg higher up his body. Chris groans into Stiles’ mouth and jerks when Stiles fingers his hole.

Stiles gets Chris flushed and panting again with his fingers, works him slowly and without any intent aside from feeling the way Chris moves around his fingers. He wriggles and lets out little grunts and groans, mutters Stiles’ name and clutches his arms around Stiles’ neck, presses his face against Stiles’ cheek and ghosts hot breathes over his skin. Stiles kisses Chris’ cheekbone, his nose, eyebrows, forehead, lips, settles his agitated lips against the soft skin of his temple and closes his eyes, breathes in the scents of Chris and come.

“Ss-St-Stiles, I can’t,” Stiles massages Chris’ prostate and tightens his grip on his thigh. Chris stutters out Stiles’ name twice more, sending sparks of pleasure racing through Stiles’ body both times.

“Too soon. I’m not-”

“Ready. I know. I’m not, either.” Stiles kisses his temple again and pulls his fingers out slowly. Chris is shaking as if he just came again. Stiles doesn’t stop him from hiding his face against Stiles’ neck. He cups Chris’ neck and waits for him to recover patiently.

Stiles’ stomach grumbles.

“So…. How about that breakfast?”

Chris laughs and Stiles ignores how it shakes at the beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But seriously Sterek shippers, why are you reading this?  
> One of my goals is to make you suffer. Legit. It's on my to-do list. I wrote it on my marker board right next to "More poptarts" and "Get sweater back from the Ginger." 
> 
> This isn't a positive relationship. I'm too sadistic to not torture you all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Isaac figure something out.

**It isn’t until Derek looks** at the map with sleep groggy eyes that he realizes what they’re leading to. He pushes the sleeping Isaac off of his stomach and grabs the marker Isaac had abandoned on the side table the night before. He starts at the most recent sightings of the scent and works his way backwards. They swirl, alright. But to what? It has to be someone Derek knows. The town isn’t big enough for there to be others of his kind that he hasn’t run into before. Except the pattern has to continue, right? If you’re going to make something like this then why only do it halfway? So it has to go somewhere. That somewhere has to be somewhere Derek knows. He circles the McCall home, the Deaton residences and the vet, Scott’s school, the Martin house, Boyd’s, Whitmore’s, Argent’s, Stilinski’s, Reyes’, Hale territory, Isaac’s, and any other place that seems important but there’s not many more.

He stands back and crosses his arms, stares, tries to trace it with his eyes. Isaac drapes his arms over Derek’s shoulders, rubs his face from the hem of Derek’s shirt and up to his ear and back down. Derek can smell the stale air of Isaac’s morning breath as he rumbles a barely enunciated “morning” in his ear.

Sometimes Derek’s still irritated that Isaac’s last growth spurt made him three more inches taller than him. It was bad enough when he was sixteen and already an inch over Derek. He isn’t even sure why it bothers him.

He still leans back into Isaac, feeling his sleep-warmed chest against his shoulders. It’s comforting to feel pack this close like this. His other pack members didn’t take to werewolf culture and mannerisms with the alacrity that Isaac did. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they all still had human family and friends but Isaac… Isaac only had the pack. Like Derek.

“Maybe it’s Mr. Argent’s place? That or maybe one of Scott’s.” He stretches his arm and leans, making Derek lean with him, and traces the swirl past the dots, his finger passes close to Scott’s place, bisects the Stilinski road, barely misses the Argent home.

“Could be.”

Isaac squeezes his arms tight around Derek and takes a step back, pulling Derek with him.

“C’mon, eat a little breakfast before you go back to brooding.”

Derek lets Isaac drag him away, turns, hooks an elbow around Isaac’s neck, and pulls him down. Isaac laughs and Derek gives him a noogie.

 

Derek puts bread in the toaster, pulls out two bowls, pours dry cereal in the bowls and gets out the milk in the time it takes Isaac to cut up a banana and a handful of strawberries. He puts half in each bowl and turns to get the toast. Derek pours milk into the bowls while Isaac butters the toast.

Their apartment is small but not bad. There’s a little balcony with a sliding glass door that looks out over a corner of the town and out on it, if he stretched, he could see some of the trees on Hale Territory.  They sit at their little Formica kitchen table and eat.

While chewing a bite of strawberry, Derek drifts off, starts thinking about what he’d learned about Stiles yesterday. He just doesn’t see it. Stiles dating Chris Argent. Them getting along at all, really. Considering what the Argents have done to the Hale pack over the years, the amount of trouble and grief they’ve put them all through… He just doesn’t get it. And now with that projected path crossing so close to the Stilinski house and possibly ending on the Argent household… Associating with the Argents was just going to get Stiles hurt.

Derek stops chewing, struck by the fact that this rogue pack really could be targeting the Argents. With all the other packs they’ve probably massacred with their hatred… it really could be that.

Isaac elbows Derek’s arm.

“Stop thinking. Eat your breakfast.” Derek shoulders Isaac and scoops around the bananas in the bowl.

“And eat your bananas, they’re good for you.”

“I hate bananas.”

“No, you don’t. Just eat them.”

Derek scowls and scoops up a slice of banana. He should cut off Isaac’s feet. Then he’d be shorter than Derek.

 

Isaac’s favorite red ball bounces off the map for the seventeenth time and Derek is considering stabbing him just for the therapeutic value.

“Stop it.”

“It helps me think.”

“Stabbing you will help me think.”

“No, it won’t.” Isaac picks up his feet and shoves them in Derek’s lap. Derek fingers his ankle and tugs down the hem of Isaac’s jeans absently as he stares at the map.

“It could definitely be the Argent place.” Derek rubs his fingers over the soft flesh on the top of Isaac’s bare foot, feeling the tendons under his thin skin.

“Yeah, it probably is. They’ve definitely got lots of enemies.” Derek’s fingers tighten on Isaac’s foot. He makes a noise if discontent and shakes his foot. Derek spreads his fingers over it with one hand and cups Isaac’s Achilles’ tendon.

“Speaking of: Were you aware that Stiles was, was—with Chris Argent?” Isaac sighs and tries to pull his feet back. Derek tightens his grip until Isaac stops pulling.

“Yes, I knew.”

“How long?”

“Derek, I don’t think this is—“

“How. Long. Have. You. Known.”

“About ten months.”

“ _Ten months?”_

“Getting upset about this is fine. Picking a fight over it or throwing a fit would be a step back.”

“You knew for _ten months_ and didn’t think I’d like to know?” Isaac grunts in frustration and digs his heel into Derek’s thigh.

“No, I didn’t think you needed to know. It’s Stiles and Mr. Argent’s business, _not yours._ ” Derek digs his fingernails into the arch of Isaac’s foot and calf, growls, and bares his teeth. Isaac sneers and kicks Derek’s thigh hard.  “Stop that. You’re such a caveman. Ugh. Quit tripping, they’re just fuck buddies. Jeeze.”

Isaac stands up and moves away from Derek, stomping out his agitation.

“How did you find out?”  Isaac turns and glares at him, lips pursed.

“Stiles told me, you jerk.” He throws his red ball at Derek’s chest. It bounces off and hits floor. Derek sits there and stares at the map. The front door slams shut and Derek tunes his ears in to listen to Isaac huff down the stairs to the beat up white sedan he saved up for.

 

Derek needs to tell Argent about what he’s found. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast. Sunday: the purported quiet before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check tags for updated pairings.
> 
> Short. This was going to be part of chapter seven but I ran out of time so I figured I'd just make it its own chapter.

**Chris rolls off the bed** and Stiles rubs his stomach, now only slightly sticky. His boxers hit him in the face.

“Allison’s home. No naked breakfast.” Stiles grins and sits up, watches Chris pull on his pajama pants with an appreciative eye.

“But that’s my favorite. “ He pulls his boxers on slowly, dividing his attention between maneuvering his legs and watching Chris walk to the dresser. Chris rubs a hand over his face and, perversely, Stiles’ heart flutters. He pulls out two T-shirts while Stiles is distracted. When Chris walks over to him, T-shirts fisted in one hand, Stiles scoots to the edge of the bed, swings his legs over, eyes still unfocused. He slides his arms around Chris, unthinkingly, and leans his head against him. Chris runs a hand over Stiles’ scalp and down his neck.

“I’ll get cooking while you finish getting ready.” He sets one of the T-shirts on Stiles’ lap, bending over him and laying a kiss on the back of Stiles’ head. Stiles doesn’t want to think about why the feel of Chris above him, around him, comforts him so much. He stares down at the shirt in his lap and his mind is deniably blank.

It’s his shirt.

Chris pulled his shirt out of the dresser. Dear, merciful werewolfy gods, Stiles really _has_ moved in without realizing it. He listens to Chris’ feet on the floor move towards the door, the knob turning, door shutting, his breathing, watches his hand fist in the soft material of his Classic Blunders shirt. He’d actually been looking for this. With a sudden intake of breath and movement, Stiles pulls on the shirt and stands, sways, grabs his cane, and heads out of the room.

 

By the time he makes it down the stairs, the smell of French toast has started to drift like a siren out of the kitchen. Except without the death, he’s pretty sure there isn’t going to be any death involved in him giving in to the alluring scent. Stiles hooks his cane onto a drawer near that’s open and heaves himself up onto the island. Chris turns and gives him an unamused look, spatula in hand.

Stiles grins at him and leans foreword, gripping the edge of the counter.  Chris scoops up the last piece of toast, turns away from the stovetop, reaches around Stiles to set it with the orange juice he’d already had out. Stiles hooks his left ankle behind Chris’ thigh and tugs. Chris crowds between Stiles’ legs, rests his hands on Stiles’ bare thighs, raises his eyebrows and gives Stiles his best I’m-not-giving-into-you face. Stiles slings an arm around Chris’ shoulders and kisses him.

“Allison and Scott will be up by now,” is his barely audible protest against Stiles’ lips.

“No doubt the smell of food will rouse the beasts shortly.”

Chris snorts and kisses Stiles. It’s all lips and noise and perfectly Chris. His lips scrape against Stiles and cling, sticky. Stiles licks them because he can. They taste a little more bitter than normal and it takes a moment for Stiles to remember why. Chris fingers clutch at Stiles’ hips and his sharp intake of breath when Stiles licks them again tells Stiles that he hadn’t forgotten what was on his face.

Stiles leans back on the arm not around Chris and rubs his thigh against Chris’ side, pulling him in to a deeper kiss. Chris kisses back exuberantly, pressing himself hard against Stiles.

It’s at this point that there’s an aggrieved yell from the entrance into the kitchen. The kiss is broken, Chris leans his head against Stiles’ shoulder farthest from the source of the noise, he’s breathing a little heavily and Stiles is, too.

“Morning, Scott.”

The “morning” that Stiles gets in return is a little strangled and followed by Scott nearly whining Allison’s name. She shuffles past him, hair a mass of tangles, and pulls plates out of the cabinet. Stiles is pretty sure that Allison copes using an intelligent mix of pretending her dad isn’t sleeping with one of her friends and amusement from Scott’s comically overdone reactions. Stiles commends her.

Stiles quickly pecks a kiss behind the hinge of Chris’ jaw and untangles himself from him. Chris turns quickly back to the stove, turns off the burner, and sets it off to the side to cool down. Stiles hops off the counter carefully, mindful of his knee and how much it hates sudden landings, grabs his cane and levers himself in the direction of the coffee mug cabinet.

Scott has skittered around the opposite side of the island to the kitchen table where food and Allison are. When Stiles turns around, Chris is pouring himself a mug of coffee from the pot. Stiles grips his mug (he has a mug) and walks up behind Chris who turns and pours coffee for Stiles. His eyes flick between the cup and Stiles while he does it, an uncertain look on his face. Stiles hates that look. He looks over at Scott and Allison, both pretending to be too immersed in food to pay attention to this half of the kitchen. When he looks back, Chris has turned away again. Stiles frowns at his tense back for a few seconds before turning away and heading towards the table.

 

“You came back early, Stiles,” Allison says as she reaches for more syrup. Stiles nods.

“My last class got let out earlier than I expected.” Chris sits down at the end of the table, not in the seat next to Stiles but not as far away as he can get either. Scott’s nostrils flair, eyes widen.

“OH MY GOD WHY DO YOU TWO SMELL LIKE YOU BATHED IN SEMEN?” 

Stiles chokes on a mouthful of toast. Chris pats him on the back while flashing Scott his patented Unamused Face No. 4. Allison dissolves into a fit of uncomfortable giggles behind her hand.

“ANYWAY! I was talking to Lydia on Friday and she suggested we all do an outing today so everyone can catch up. You two free?”

They both look at each other simultaneously. It’s creepy how synchronized they are.

“We had plans with Erica already.” Allison says, smiling apologetically.

“But we could probably all meet up for lunch?” Scott says, looking at Allison for confirmation. She nods.

“Lunch would work. About three thirty?”

Stiles smiles and drinks his coffee.

“Yeah, that should do. I’ll ask Lydia. I don’t even know who else is going. It’ll probably just end up with me and maybe Jackson following her around while she shops since everyone is usually busy with family and stuff.”

Scott nods. Allison asks her dad to pass the syrup. Stiles feels Chris’ toes graze the side of his foot. 

Stiles looks around the table. Scott and Allison sit close together. He can tell that Allison has her left hand resting on Scott's leg, Scott has half a whole piece of toast dangling from his mouth, distractedly texting while he slowly chews, Chris is half-smiling behind his coffee mug, the side of his big toe rubbing up and down Stiles' Achilles' tendon. 

It's a good morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be thorough: so far have a missed anything that I should be tagging? 
> 
>  
> 
> Stiles' shirt: http://www.snorgtees.com/t-shirts/geek-nerd/the-classic-blunders


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strategies and other things that Derek isn't good at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm half asleep so be on the look out for typos.
> 
> Also: I've messed around (a tiny bit) with some of the characters' heights to factor in that some of them are playing teenagers so the probability of them growing at least another inch or so is possible. So far it's just Stiles and Isaac's height which would be incongruent to the people who play them. I don't expect to change any of the female character's heights as most females tend to not grow much more between eighteen and twenty-one.

**Derek has to park across the street** because the driveway is full and bracketing it are Scott and Stiles’ vehicles. As he crosses the street and stomps (only a little) across the Argent’s well-kept lawn, he wonders who Stiles is here for, why he’d be over at the Argent house so early in the morning.

He can hear the sounds of chewing and talking, faintly smell French toast. Scott says something about WOW and Stiles laughs. The sound quickens Derek’s heart. He watches his hand press the doorbell.

“Oh! I’ll get it.” He hears a chair scoot back and Allison’s light feet on the kitchen tile. “Don’t eat my toast, Scott!” Argent and Stiles laugh and Scott says he won’t if she hurries.

Telling Argent about the scent trend has just gotten much harder. The door opens, Allison’s eyebrows rise, she doesn’t let go of the knob.

“Derek! What’re you doing here?” Derek knows she didn’t say his name for him, knows it was a warning for Scott and the others. He hears a set of silverware clatter onto a plate after Scott says it’s Derek.

“Need to speak to your dad.”

Her lips compress and she nods, knowing already that this can’t be good news. She turns; he follows, closing the door behind him.

“Do you want to leave?” he hears Argent say.

“No, if he has news, I want to hear it.”

“I could tell you later.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to stay here,” Scott agrees, sounding concerned. Stiles sighs.

“I think I’m capable of functioning in the same building as my ex,” Stiles says in a dry voice. He sounds unhappy. Derek kind of hopes it’s at Argent. When he enters the kitchen, Scott has his mouth open and Stiles is brandishing a syrupy fork at him. Scott’s mouth snaps shut with a frown and Stiles turns his fork around, spears a piece of French toast, and shoves it into his mouth, chewing unhappily.

“Derek, what brings you by?” Chris wipes his mouth with a napkin and sets it on the table next to his plate. He doesn’t stand to greet Derek but sits there at the end of the table, Stiles on his left-hand side and Allison taking her seat on his right. Derek feels very much the outsider, staring at this wholesome setting and knows he’s right. Here: he is nothing more than an interloper even with his pack at that table.

“Do you think I could speak to you in private?” Derek asks, glancing at Stiles and then back to Chris, hoping he gets the message. Chris frowns, his body shifting as if he moved his leg.

“They’re just going to hear it anyway. Might as well just say it now.” Allison’s hand nudges her father’s with a concerned look, he wraps his fingers around her smaller hand.  Derek breathes deeply, not happy with that answer.

“They’re coming for you.”

It’s silent for a moment. Stiles breaks it.

“What?”

“I’ve tracked the movements of the rogue pack and they’re circling your house.”

Stiles makes a high-pitched panicked noise. Derek watches as Chris raises his free hand from the table and grips the back of Stiles’ neck with it and feels awkwardly helpless. He wants to tell Chris not to touch Stiles, wants to punch him in the nose and bare his fangs at him, pull Stiles away but he can’t do any of that. He’s an intruder in a familiar place full of familiar people. He clenches his fists at his sides uselessly.

Scott has his hand spread against Allison’s side, strangely leaving her right hand alone.  They’re all connected this way. It’s bizarre to see such familiar posturing in a group of mostly humans. Derek wonders if they’re doing it on purpose.

“Do you know about when they’ll reach the house,” Allison asks.

Derek clenches his jaw, shakes his head.

“Give what you’ve got to Lydia, she should be able to give us an estimate.” Stiles’ eyes are hard when he says this, the corners of his mouth tugging down grimly. Chris’ hand slides down Stiles’ neck, over his shoulder, squeezes his bicep and rests on the table next to Stiles’ hand. They’re not quite touching but their bodies are angled towards each other slightly, torsos leaning as if some part of them were magnetized towards each other.

For some reason this, more than anything else he’s seen and heard of the two, makes him angry. He takes in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His nostrils flare, hands clenched, and that’s when he smells it.

Stiles, old sweat, lubricant, Argent, and a lot of semen, some of it older than the rest. Most of it couldn’t have been more than two hours old. The scents were too strong. They’d had sex, recently, more than once. Derek felt like he was going to vomit.

“Do you have them on you,” Chris asks into the silence Derek is sure must have been uncomfortable for them. Derek gives a terse nod.

“In the car.”

“O.K.,” Allison says, scooting her chair back. “You grab them and I’ll meet you in the den to see if we can organize it all into something easier for Lydia to maneuver.”

Derek turns and walks out of the kitchen, out of the house, to his car. He’s tempted to just get in and drive away.

“Stiles, are you alright?” That’s Scott’s voice. Allison is shuffling things around in the den. Stiles laughs abruptly.

“Sure, I am.” Derek grabs the folded map from the back seat and slams his car door shut. Someone stands up from the kitchen table and starts clearing away plates. Someone else stands, there’s the clink of silverware on plate.

“Maybe you should sit down.” Scott again. Derek walks in clipped steps across the lawn; he hears another set of feet, this one uneven. Definitely Stiles.

“I’ve spent enough time on my ass.” Stiles snaps back. Allison yells from the den:

“Don’t you mean my dad’s ass?”

Scott shouts Allison’s name and there’s a thunk that rattles what’s left on the kitchen table. Derek knows the sound of Scott’s head hitting something by now. 

“I’m telling Erica on you!”

“Like that’ll help at all.” Stiles sounds amused. Derek opens the front door to the clatter of plates and the running of water in the kitchen sink.

“Here, I’ll load, you rinse." Argent says.

“On it.” Stiles' voice sounds saccharinely chipper.

 Derek walks through the house and attempts to ignore how the place reeks of Stiles and is brimming with the sounds of people well used to living together. It makes him feel hollow and alone in a way that no amount of pack members could ever fix. It used to be so foreign, so hard for him to remember all the time that he was an orphan, that he had no family of his own. Now he was surrounded with nothing but reminders.

In the den Allison has a projection of Beacon County up on the pull down screen. He hands her the map and stands back against the opposing wall as she unfolds it, checks it, and begins marking on the computer where the sightings have been. For a few minutes, he listens to her heartbeat, sturdy and strong and watches the projection. Every minute or so another dot appears.

When one of them passes within three blocks of the McCall residence, he turns to watch her. Allison’s hair is tangled badly and, from what he can smell on her, he can guess that it isn’t in that state from sleeping. She’s frowning, hunched over the screen, rolling her lips between her teeth.

Derek can hear Stiles talking about frequency and Gamma rays in relation to the Hulk’s molecular composition. Argent hums and grunts in, what Derek thinks is false, interest, interrupting sporadically with questions or arguments against Stiles’ position.

Argent is doing a remarkable(ly silly) impression of the Bill Bixby Hulk proselytizing on behalf of the radiated community, his motto “lose a limb, gain a life- for science” has Stiles emitting peals of laughter when an expensively heavy pen bounces off his chest. Derek focuses on Allison, wondering if today was just going to be one of Those Days where people thought it prudent to throw stuff at him for no good reason.

“Quit eavesdropping and pay attention.” Derek hears Scott snicker from upstairs. He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head towards her.

“She’ll want to know what time they appeared.”

“It’s on the side. Right is date discovered, left is best approximate of when it was made. If it’s underlined it was a sighting.”

Allison smiles, “Perfect!”

Derek tracks Argent’s footsteps through the rooms between them and the intervening silence. He turns and Argent is leaning a hip against the doorframe, pajamas and dishtowel in his hand making the sight of him all too domestic with the scent of Stiles so ripe on him.

“That’s a very obvious pattern. Could they be threatening me as a sort of peace offering to Hale Pack?” Derek had to admit it was more than possible.

“Like that, uh, clutch? of selkies in Half Moon Bay that drowned anyone with a cross as an offering to the local coven?”

Argent smiles at her, draping the towel onto his shoulder.

“Yes, like that,” he said, obviously proud of her. “A group of selkies is a raft.”

Allison cursed lightly under her breath.

“Any ideas on how to deter them from attacking?” Derek pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth in an attempt to not clench his teeth.

“Without directly calling attention to the wrong things, there’s not much. If I verbaly ask it’ll seem like Hale Pack is working for you. If I attack them first it’ll ruin any chance of peace.”

“So, it’d have to be indirect.”

“What if we made it look like you had the Argents in your pocket?” Stiles stood in the door next to Argent, a dark colored cane in his hand.

“Good. How.” Derek hated how words seemed to flee from him when he needed them.

“Well,” Stiles walks into the room and plops down on one of the chairs near the desk. “Scott’s already been here for two days and I bet the place smells a lot like him and me.”

Derek nods.

“Have other pack members rotate staying here? Get them to stop by often.”

“Make it seem like Hale Pack has me under supervision.”

Derek frowns.

“That’d only work if the place also smelled of me.”

“I’m pretty high up the traditional hierarchy for a human. Maybe you had me infiltrate?”

“Crack us from the inside,” Allison says. “Got me with Scott and got my dad with you.”

Stiles grinned, “Exactly!”

Derek hated this plan so much he was feeling nauseous.

“My scent would still need to be present for that to work.”

Stiles heaved himself up from the chair.

“Then take the first shift.”

Derek resisted the urge to grab Stiles as he walked past him to the door. Upstairs, the shower turned on. Stiles’ uneven gait took him back into the kitchen.

“Could you two hammer out a tentative schedule for house sitting?” Argent looks at Allison when he asks. Allison nods.

“Yeah, we should be able to do it.”

“Good. I’m going to go finish cleaning up the kitchen.”

Allison and Argent share a look that Derek doesn’t get.

“Someone got syrup on the table.” Argent levels his eyes at the ceiling and Allison grins.  “I should make him lick it up…” Derek’s pretty sure that they’ve forgotten he’s standing there.

“Hey!  Hands off. Sticky boy’s mine!” Argent laughs, salutes his daughter.

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am!” Does a casual about-face, and walks (almost saunters) back into the kitchen. Derek watches him go, listens to him enter the kitchen, hears Stiles’ soft “Hey, you,” his ears burn, it sounds like they kiss.

Allison has an excel sheet open and is typing all of the pack’s names into it. She says “When are you available?” and Derek steels himself for several hours of frustration.

He should call Isaac.  


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe your heart will break, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New and improved proof-read version. Any typos or grammatical mistakes left now can't be blamed on the lateness of the hour or my rush to post but on my incompetence.

**Alone in the kitchen,** Stiles hooks his cane on a drawer, and leans against the sink. He can feel water under his arms and feet. Probably there from when he and Chris had washed the dishes. Stiles palms his face, breathes in, bows his head and runs his hands over his scalp. He hears someone enter the room. Sighing, he knows it’s going to be Chris. Because Chris is a certifiable angel and is infinitely considerate of others. He’s the only one that would tread heavier when entering a room so the occupants know he’s coming. Stiles lets go of his head, stands up straight, dragging his arms across the edge of the sink, turns, and speaks.

“Hey, you.” Chris smiles, walks the rest of the way to Stiles, kisses him gently. Stiles leans against the counter behind him. Water soaks through his shirt but he doesn’t care.

“How about I make another pot of coffee?”

Stiles hums and nods. “Coffee good.”

Chris turns and walks over to the coffee maker. It’s almost an exact reenactment of earlier this morning. Stiles has a strange sense of urgency. Like he can’t let this opportunity pass again. Without thinking, he limps quickly behind Chris and touches his fingertips to his back. It’s hard, the muscles under his fingers so tense that Stiles’ back gives a twinge of sympathetic pain. It’s probably just his imagination, but he swears that Chris relaxes under his touch.

Stiles flattens his hand against Chris’ back, feels the swell and curve of muscles and spine slide under his hand as he moves it down. Chris sighs and leans back, Stiles wraps his arms around his waist and rests his chin on his shoulder. They watch the coffee pot drip coffee for a few moments.

He takes in a deep breath. Chris is getting a little ripe, Stiles probably is, too. Turning his head, he presses his lips against Chris’ head; Chris turns his head towards Stiles and wraps his fingers around Stiles’ wrists.

“You smell,” Stiles states. Chris huffs. “If it makes you feel better, I smell, too.”

“… And that’s how you talked your way into my bed.”  Stiles smiles and kisses Chris’ neck.

“Nah, I think that had something to do with other uses of my mouth.” He kisses lower on Chris’ neck, then lower again, nudging aside his T-shirt to lay a kiss on the top of his shoulder. Chris presses back into Stiles, changing how he’s balanced to press his ass against him. Stiles tightens his arms around Chris and plants a kiss on the shirt-covered portion of Chris’ shoulder. The way they stand like that is strangely familiar and completely alien at the same time.

“We should go get cleaned up.” Stiles nods and presses his lips into Chris’ hair. For some reason this moment, more than any other, feels like a tipping point. He gently begins to unwrap his arms from around Chris, takes a step back, Chris turns, cups Stiles’ jaw with one hand, and kisses him. It’s almost painful in how soft it is, how tentative and, Stiles almost doesn’t want to say, how shy it is. He stumbles back a little and Chris follows almost urgently. His back hits the island and he grips the edge, feeling like he needs the anchor of something solid under his hands as Chris takes him apart with just his mouth.

Stiles pulls away first, gradually lessening the kiss until it’s intermittent pecks. He’s staring at Chris’ lips. Those dry, pink lips he knows so well. He can’t help but kiss them again, lick that bottom lip until it’s wet. He can taste syrup and coffee on Chris’ lips and it’s good. So good.

Chris’ hands on Stiles’ chest fist the material of his shirt when Stiles licks his lips. He makes this weird little needy noise and drops his hands down to Stiles’ ass, grips tight. Oh, and Stiles likes that. He kisses harder, practically pin-balling himself back and forth between Chris and the counter. Stiles brings one of his arms up and slings it around Chris’ shoulders, pulls him closer.

The thin material of their clothes really isn’t enough of a barrier between them for Stiles not to be able to feel Chris’ dick against his hip. He knows Chris’ body so well. Knows how his fingernails broaden from the quick out gradually, knows that, if he’s not paying attention, his mouth goes a little uneven, one side pulling just a little more strong at the corner than the other, knows the way he rolls his ankle when he walks, knows the lean shape of every muscle and the way shadows hug and caress his back in the middle of the night, knows the curve of his dick and the ways his mouth opens when he’s feeling anything strongly, knows how his body shakes when he comes and his fingers will curl into fists against the side of his head when Stiles goes down on him.

There’s a mildly frightening moment where Stiles has no idea what’s going on. Chris’ hands dig into his thighs right under his ass and lift. Stiles yelps and then laughs, now sitting on the edge of the counter. He stares down at Chris, grinning at his excited and flushed face.

Stiles hooks his left leg around Chris and fists a handful of his hair. That urgent feeling hasn’t gone away. Chris makes another noise, grinding his groin against Stiles’, dragging his hands up Stiles’ thighs and under his boxers. He puts his mouth on Chris’ so he doesn’t have to hear those noises again.

“OH MY GOD! DO YOU TWO EVER STOP?!”

Stiles breaks away, turning his head to Scott. His face is the perfect picture of appalled surprise. Stiles really can’t help the laugh that breaks free from his chest, turning his head towards the ceiling, unable to look at Scott’s hilarious face any longer. When his laugh dies down a little, he turns his head to look at Chris. Whose face is a mix of… something- rapture? Joy? Delight? while he watches Stiles laugh. Stiles doesn’t want to know.

“How about that shower,” he asks instead, breathless. Chris grins, tightening his fingers where they’re still lightly holding Stiles’ thighs.

“Sounds good.”

Scott groans, “I need brain bleach. So much brain bleach.”

Chris leans into Stiles, a mischievous grin on his face, there’s something below the surface that Stiles can’t (won’t) read.

“I can make sure you get a thorough cleaning.” His lips graze Stiles’ ear and, if he weren’t in a room with his best friend in a house with his ex within constant earshot, that would have been a very sexy offer. It still was, really, but Stiles wasn’t exactly rising to the occasion, as it were. That didn’t mean he was going to pass up the opportunity to fuck with Scott. This is for nearly four years of chronic goo-goo eyes at Allison, he thinks.

“How could I refuse an offer like that?” Chris flashed him one more playful smile before turning around and holding out his arms.

“Mount up,” he says in a sotto voice. Stiles laughs and wraps his arms around Chris’ shoulders, hooks his good leg around him, and braces himself. Chris grabs his thighs, hikes Stiles a little higher, and takes off through the house. Scott yells after them that they’re weird. Stiles just laughs and shouts: “Hi-ho Silver Fox! Awaaaaaay!”

He can hear Allison laughing in the den as they run by.

When they get to Chris’ bedroom, Chris kicks the door shut and carefully sets Stiles down. Panting, he turns around with a grin. Stiles returns it, laughing a little still.

“Stiles, I-“ Whether or not Stiles would have liked to hear the end of that sentence, he will never know. Chris cuts himself off and presses his mouth, his body, desperately against Stiles. He keeps pressing until Stiles is against the door, hooks Stiles’ thighs in his hands and lifts. Stiles wraps his good leg around Chris along with his arms, surprised at Chris’ actions. There’s a thudding noise when Stiles’ back hits the door. Chris carefully keeps one of his hands hooked under Stiles’ right leg and slides one of his own legs foreword to bear some of Stiles’ weight.

They don’t usually do this- the kissing, yes. And the –oooh fuck, that’d be Chris’ hand on his junk- groping, yes. But not in the middle of the day with Scott and Allison home, not when others were here, too. And the PDA? They’ve never done that before. Yesterday, with Allison and Scott in the room, was the first time they’d ever touched when it wasn’t absolutely necessary in front of other people. Then there was the kiss. They’d never done that when someone else could have seen it.

Stiles wonders if it’s because of Derek, wonders if Chris feels some need to compete with him, if Chris is feeling possessive or threatened by Derek. Stiles really hopes it isn’t that. He really wouldn’t be O.K. with that. Stiles isn’t some possession or prize that Chris ‘gets.’ He’s a human fucking being, not a fleshlight that can be bought or sold. With this thought, he breaks the kiss, pulls back as best he can, considering his position.

“Chris—“ he looks up at him, the happy look on his face hardens, turns a little… dejected and his mouth is firmly in a not-frown.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He sets Stiles down gently and turns. “I’ll get the shower going.”

Stiles reaches out, still leaning against the door and grabs Chris’ arm. His bicep twitches and flexes stiffly under his hand.

“It’s not— It’s just can’t be—“ Stiles doesn’t want to say what he was trying to say out loud, afraid of what saying it will mean to him—for them. Chris turns, gently cups Stiles’ face and kisses him softly. Stiles knows it’s an apology. He pulls away and smiles at Stiles.

“I know,” he says and for some reason, the weight and gentleness he puts into those two syllables makes Stiles’ heart speed up and his eyes widen. He’s afraid of so much—of what that action means. Those words with that face and the kiss he gives Stiles now feels too much like goodbye.

Chris smiles again. It’s heartbreaking to look at. Or maybe Stiles’ heart is just breaking. He can’t take this. It hurts too much. It’s all too much. Chris pulls away, turns away. This time Stiles lets him go. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you comment on my AO3 stuff on tumblr (I know at least two of you have) then tag it with monstertesk so that I can stalk you.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not quite a hug and he doesn't really come to the rescue except that it is and he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short but whatever. I'm tired.

**Derek gives up** and texts Isaac ten minutes in to trying to organize a schedule with Allison. He’s already feeling frustrated and overwhelmed and all he’s done is told her his work schedule. That shouldn't even be hard. He only works four days a week.

“How do you afford an apartment when you only work thirty hours a week?”

Derek was trying very, very hard not to smash everything in the room.

“Does it matter?” Allison looks up at him, a lank of hair falling in front of her eyes, and shrugs.

“I live with Stiles, work, and I still have to get help from my dad to afford my apartment.” A muscle in Derek’s jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth. He used to think he’d live with Stiles, looked up prices of apartments near Sac State, even gone and looked for a part time job there like the one he had in Monterey.

“Derek?” Derek turns his head in the direction of the front porch. Salvation; Isaac’s here.

“Come open the door for me.” Allison calls after him when he leaves the room but he remembers too late that people generally announce when someone is there or when they leave the room. Living with and only socializing with Isaac, Erica, and Boyd for most of the year hasn’t helped his human social skills.

When he opens the door, Isaac takes one look at him and steps close, reaches out a steady (and cold) hand to his side. Isaac frowns, eyebrows pulling together, tilts his head down and to the side. Derek feels his eyes and mouth tighten without him willing them to. He breathes in deep through his nose after burying it into the curly hair behind Isaac’s ear and gripping the zipper on his jacket. Isaac’s hand sneaks under the hem of his shirt and he can feel his cold, long fingers holding the top of his hip, pulling him a little closer.

Neither of them is saying it but Derek knows they both understand each other’s apologies. Derek has a little bit more to apologize for, though. After all that Isaac has done for him this past year—considering how good of a person Isaac is, how caring and how much shit Derek has put him through—Isaac deserved better than how Derek had treated him.

Isaac pushes Derek away slowly, squeezes his hip, gives him one of his frowny smiles and bites his lip. For some unaccountable reason, Derek’s heart freezes in his chest.

“I’ll go talk to Allison. How about you go and greet Boyd and Erica? They’re supposed to arrive home in an hour.”

Derek nods and steps closer to Isaac again, needing to breath in his calming scent once more.

Upstairs there’s a thunk and Derek can hear heavy breathing and wet kissing sounds. Isaac drapes his arms over Derek’s shoulders and hugs him close momentarily. Derek is briefly glad that Isaac is taller than him. He buries his nose under Isaac’s jacket and lets out a puff of air in the close space between shirt and jacket. Isaac scratches lightly against the back of Derek’s neck and he relaxes without meaning to. It feels like he droops, a puppet with its strings cut, leaning against Isaac as if without him, he wouldn’t be upright. Momentarily, he’s sure he wouldn’t be.

“Come on. We have stuff to do.”

Derek nods, nose pushing Isaac’s shirt down a little. Isaac rubs Derek’s arm and he doesn’t want to leave right now. Not with Isaac’s scent all around him, his hands warming on Derek’s arm and neck, and the feel of the soft skin of his neck under Derek’s ear from where his movements have dragged down Isaac’s shirt.  

“Derek?” Allison’s voice sounds slightly before her feet track out of the den. Derek steps away and his eyebrows scrunch and move up when he makes eye contact with Isaac who simply smiles and opens the door for Derek.

“I got this. Go glower at Erica while she unpacks.” Derek smiles in thanks and steps outside, heads towards his car.

“So,” he hears Isaac say, “I hear you’re in need of some expert guard dog services. Well, I’ve got just the batch for you.”

Derek starts his car and hears Allison laugh. “Admittedly, there may be some behavioral issues but nothing that a good whack on the nose with your periodical of choice won’t fix! They're a steal at these low low prices.”

Isaac’s heart is steady and his lungs sound clean and robust when he breathes. Derek pulls away from the Stilinski house and turns off onto one of the more busy streets in town listening to him.

He hopes Erica and Boyd get to the apartment ahead of schedule. Derek could use some time with the two of them.  They can go to the park and harass the geese while Isaac’s busy. Isaac never lets them do anything fun like that. 

 

When he gets home, Erica and Boyd haven't arrived yet so he kicks off his shoes by the door (Isaac's rule) and faceplants onto their couch. He squirms around for a few minutes before finding a comfortable spot. If said spot happens to be where he and Isaac fell asleep together last night then so be it. He lets out a puff of air and pulls the afghan that Isaac keeps on the back of the couch over his shoulders, curls up, and tries to feel a little less vulnerable, alone in their apartment.

He can hear the couple that live on the floor below them talking about their Easter plans to visit family. Derek feels a deep-seated pang of loneliness and pushes his face hard against the fisted part of whool blanket in his hand and shoves himself as far into the couch cushions as he can get. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mister Argent, you're inner nerd boy is showing. 
> 
> Also found: angst.

**Lydia arrives when Stiles is naked** **and laying on Chris’ bed,** watching him shave through the open bathroom door. He can hear Allison greeting Lydia then their voices get more and more muffled as Allison probably leads Lydia to the den. Stiles is laying on his back, head hanging over the side of the bed, watching the muscles in Chris back shift whenever he moves his arm. Scratching his stomach, Stiles lets his mind wander. He doesn’t know why he was so distraught before their shower. Can’t think of any reason why he felt so desperate to remove his clothes and press his body against Chris’ wet back. Won’t even think about how comforting it had been to feel Chris’ familiar hands holding him up while he showered, secure in knowing that if he stumbled, Chris would catch him.

The worst part is it wasn’t even sexual, nor sensual or even exciting. It had been calming to shower with Chris. Just as calming as it was to lie in bed as if it were any other morning after he’d stayed over and watch Chris shave. Stiles never bothered to shave on the weekends he stayed over, preferring to get that stubble against stubble feel come Sunday afternoon. He thought it made kissing even better and, with the way Chris reacted, he tended to think that he agreed.

Watching Chris shave was stupid and mundane. So every-day and it was terrifyingly soothing. He didn’t even care (OK, he cared a little) that he had the shape and movements of Chris’ back memorized, he still watched it, watched him like it was something brand new every time.

Chris is pulling on a pair of jeans, facing away from Stiles when someone knocks on the bedroom door.

“Stiles?” He turns his head to the door.

“Yes?”

“Quit making out with Mister Argent and come shopping with me.”

“Don’t you have to do danger math?”

Stiles watches Chris walk across the room towards him.

“Please, that stuff is so freshman level. Even Scott could do it.”

There’s a muffled shout that’s probably Scott and Chris bends over Stiles and kisses low on his stomach, hair brushing very sensitive parts. Stiles is face to crotch with him, impulsively wraps his hands around Chris’ thighs and presses his face into Chris’ jean covered thigh.

“I’ll be waiting in the living room. Don’t keep me too long.” Her footsteps fade away and down the stairs.

“You should get dressed now,” Chris says and pulls away. Stiles tightens his grip on Chris’ jeans and looks up at him.

“What? You don’t like having me naked and on your bed?” Chris smiles and runs his palm over Stiles’ triceps. Stiles wriggles on the bed, arching his back and kicking his legs a little because it tickles in a good way. Chris’ mouth parts a little, then he smiles, scratches his fingers against Stiles’ armpits. Stiles’ face scrunches up and he wriggles more, trying not to laugh. It’s a loosing battle. His grip tightens on Chris’ jeans and his head falls back against the side of the bed, Chris’ fingers dancing down his sides and up his arms.

They’re both laughing and all the blood has rushed to Stiles’ head when he concedes defeat and says he’ll get dressed. Chris is kneeling in front of Stiles on the floor, smiling with his arms resting next to Stiles’ side. Stiles lifts his head up and Chris meets him for an upside down kiss.

“First you’re Lancelot and now Spiderman?” Chris cups the back of Stiles head and kisses him again.

“You’re the one who’s upside down. That makes you Spiderman.”

“Does that mean you’re my Mary Jane?”

“If you want me to be.”

The look on his face is too serious for Stiles, too full of things he doesn’t want to think about right now. So he buries his fingers in Chris’ hair and pulls him down for another kiss. When they break apart, Chris is smiling, small and secretive. Stiles thinks it’s almost worse.

“Enough messing around, Mister Parker. Get dressed. I really don’t think you want to keep Miss Allan waiting too long.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open and he rolls over onto his stomach, props himself up onto his elbows.

“Every time you talk nerdy, you just get even more sexy.” Chris chuckles and turns away quickly, picks a T-shirt out of his dresser and pulls it on.

“I’ve got business I have to attend to all day. Will you be here tonight?”

Stiles scrambles off the bed as best he can and stands up.

“Uh, I think so. I don’t have any plans right now to be anywhere else.” Chris nods and threads a belt through the loops on his jeans. Stiles lines up his boxers and jeans carefully then slides both of his legs through while sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What’s the business?”

“Preparedness. Got to get the men the information they need.” Stiles nods.

“What did Allison say to tell them?”

“Don’t know yet. After I get dressed, I’ll get my orders from her.” Stiles limps his way up behind Chris (who, unnervingly, still has his back to Stiles) and wraps his arms around him, kisses his ear.

“Does it ever feel weird taking orders from your daughter?” Stiles feels Chris shrug.

“According to the Code, she outranks me.”

“But you’re still her father.” Chris shrugs again. Without looking, Stiles knows he has on his W.A.P. Smile No. 3: ‘It’s just the way it is’.

“It’s not like—I don’t ever really think about it. I’ve always been someone’s subordinate. Allison, mom… it doesn’t really matter whom it is. I’m still taking orders.”

Stiles nuzzles his mouth into the crook of Chris’ neck.

“Yeah, but do you like it?” Chris stiffens under his arms.

“I don’t exactly know any other way, Stiles.” He steps out of Stiles’ arms and crouches down to get a pair of socks out of the bottom drawer.

“But do you prefer it?”

“It’s what I’ve been taught.” Chris grabs his boots from next to the dresser and strides over to the end of the bed, sits down, starts pulling on his socks.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” A pinched look comes over Chris’ face as he yanks on his second sock.

“Does it matter? How I feel won’t change the situation either way.” Stiles limps over to where Chris is bent over, shoving his foot into his boot, rests his hand on the top of Chris’ head, steps close enough that his left knee bumps Chris’ leg. Chris sighs and leans against Stiles.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know.” Chris rolls his head back and forth against Stiles’ side.

“I didn’t know it was a sore subject for you.” Chris shakes his head and wraps his right arm around Stiles.

“It’s not that.” Stiles is almost afraid to ask:

“What is it?”

“It’s just the way it is, Stiles. The way it’s always been. I don’t know how to _be_ any other way.”

Stiles cups the back of Chris’ neck and leans closer.

“So that’s why you let your teenage daughter take charge of a militia of armed psychopaths while she was mad with grief.” Chris stiffens against him but Stiles isn’t about to let him do what he’s about to do. So Stiles pushes up Chris’ head with a hand under his jaw right after he gets out the start of a syllable and tilts his head back as far as it’ll go, swoops down, and kisses him as hard as he can, unconsciously tightening his fingers on Chris’ neck right under his jaw to keep him from talking.

When he pulls back, Chris looks a little dazed, mouth open, face flushed. His first breath comes out a little shaky. Chris looks up at Stiles; a questioning look crosses his face briefly. He swallows and looks down at his knees.

“You should really probably finish getting dressed.”

Stiles squeezes his hand still cupping the back of Chris’ neck and steps away, limps to the dresser, opens the top drawer, stifles the panic-induced hysteria at seeing a drawer full of his shirts, and picks one out. Chris finishes tying his shoes and leaves the room with one last kiss to the back of Stiles’ head while he’s trapped in his shirt.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he says right before the bedroom door shuts behind him. Stiles picks out a pair of socks and sits down on the edge of the bed, takes a deep breath, and bends over to put them on in the now silent bedroom. He sticks his feet into his engineer’s boots as efficiently as he can. Without even thinking about it he goes over to the closet and picks out an over-shirt that’ll match the T-shirt he has on, picks up the things he usually caries from off the dresser and stuffs them in his pockets.

Chris must have checked Stiles’ pockets before putting them in the hamper and put what he found here (like he always does). Fuck, Chris has even put his phone there so he doesn’t forget it. Stiles resolutely doesn’t freak out as he picks up his Danger Time cane (mountain ash with a reinforced steel core) from out of their (THEIR?!) closet and levers his way to the door.

 

When he walks past the den, he can hear Allison and Chris in there, talking. He bites his lip and walks a little quicker. Lydia is sitting on the couch with Scott, watching Adventure Time.

“Took you long enough,” she says and Stiles grins, spreads his arms, says, “You can’t rush perfection.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liz Allan was Peter Parker's first crush. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liz_Allan I dare you to read that and not find the parallels. 
> 
> This just leaves the question: is Chris Mary Jane or Gwen? Derek is def. Betty. Or was that Boyd? Yeah, Boyd was totally Betty. So is Chris Mary Jane or is Derek?  
> WHO KNOWS!
> 
> I'm going to go cram for exams now and maybe watch Cabin in the Woods with The Wife. 
> 
> See you peeps next week.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandwiches, Erica, bananas, and Boyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really made these later chapters much more difficult for myself with the precedent I set up in the first few chapters. I tried to avoid it but it was a little unavoidable with my writing style in this so... there's that. Bah.

**Derek wakes up by Erica’s duffle bag hitting him in the face.**

“You are the worst werewolf in the world,” she says, vaulting over the love seat. She walks across the couches and kicks Derek’s knees before crouching over his sideways hips and poking him in the temple.

“How did you even survive without me?”

Derek rolls onto his back, grabs her hand, pulls her down into a hug. She laughs and squirms.

“Oh my god, you giant teddy bear, it’s been like a week.” Erica still presses her face against his chest, breathes deep, stretches her arms around him. Derek can hear Boyd moving about in the kitchen, the cars passing on the road outside, children screaming as they play on the complex’s playground. He looks up and over Erica’s head to Boyd.

“Come here.” Boyd holds up what is undoubtedly the making of a ham and cheese sandwich in reply.

“He’s been weirdly grumpy all weekend,” Erica whispers into his chest. Derek tucks several locks of Erica’s curly hair behind her ear and brushes more of it out of her face. Secretly, Derek is glad that she hasn’t cut it in years. Sometimes he has dreams that he finds her sleeping in a forest and wraps morning glory vines around her and through her hair so that when she wakes, the flowers he’s enthroned her in will bloom with her.

“Yeah,” he whispers back in question, watching Boyd through the rainbow lines the sun makes when it reflects through Erica’s hair. Boyd pointedly ignores them while he chews on a bite of sandwich. “Why do you think that is?”

“I think,” she says, folding her arms across his chest and propping her chin on them. “That he has a crush on someone in his statistics class.” Derek can feel her feet kicking in the air behind her. He whispers again because it makes her smile and Derek loves Erica’s smiles.

“Does this person like him back?”

“I don’t think he knows.” The noises Boyd makes while he washes the dishes he got dirty are a little louder than necessary. Erica grins at Derek and turns around, pushes him until he’s sitting with his back against the arm of the couch. She leans back against him, grabs his wrists, folders his arms across her lap like she’s buckling herself in.

“He’s not as good at brooding as you are.”

“It took years of constant practice to get this good,” he tells her, burying his nose in her bushy hair. Momentarily, he feels less alone, almost like he has a family. He misses him mom. She used to tease him all the time about his crushes.

“I think he should just ask them.”

“Will you shut up? I’m not interested in anyone.” Boyd slams shut the plate cupboard. Erica and Derek chime “Lying,” at the same time. Boyd throws a banana at them. Erica squeals and does a graceful flip behind Derek, still holding his arms, effectively pinning him to the spot.

The banana hits Derek in the nose.

Isaac is so wrong; he hates bananas.

 

Erica laughingly shouts when Derek pulls her back over the couch and rolls them. She kicks at him, a smile of a snarl on her face, a knee in Derek’s stomach as they roll off the couch and onto the floor. He traps her legs under his shins, her hands at her sides and bites at her side. She laughs until the noise turns into frantic giggles, his teeth digging playfully at her ticklish spots, across her vulnerable stomach.

Boyd calls them dorks and fidgets with his phone. Erica gets her hands free and is tugging at his ears. Derek bites her forearm and digs his fingers into her ribs. She elbows him in the face and calls him a bad alpha, gets her knee up, rolls them over. He lets her pin him (or so he tells himself).

Her fingernails catch in his shirt when she tries to tickle him, the nails rough from where she chews on them. Boyd gets a call and Derek engulfs Erica into a tight hug. She flails against him, half-laughing, slapping his sides. Derek can hear Isaac’s voice on Boyd’s phone. He’s telling Boyd about the pattern, the Argents, their schedule. Erica rolls off of him and lays still next to Derek, listening in on Boyd’s conversation.

“Did you really go over there?” She asks, turning onto her side, throwing an arm over Derek’s chest. He nods. She hugs him, rests her head on his outstretched arm, doesn’t ask what he knows she wants to ask. Isaac will tell her later, tell her better than Derek could.

He looks at the ceiling, unable (unwilling) to look at her face when he asks:

“Did you know?”  He feels her nod.

“Pretty much everybody knew.” That hurts to hear, hurts more than her knowing what he’s asking without him having to explain.

“That’s how I didn’t find out.” She nods again.

“We felt that it would… set you back.”

It’s Derek’s turn to nod. He can’t say they’re wrong. He feels angry, wants to shout and break things and there’s a peevish part of him that wants to hurt them for doing this to him. That’s how he knows they’re right. He takes in a deep breath and thinks about Erica’s tear stained face, Boyd struggling to breath, Lydia’s naked feet covered in blood, Jackson screaming, Scott’s shaking hands, Isaac in a ball at the base of a tree, and knows he doesn’t want to do anything to hurt his pack.

“Anyway,” she says, uses his chest to lever herself up, “I’ve got a boyfriend and girlfriend to meet up with.”

“Put your stuff away first,” Derek says, watching her smooth her hair as best she can with her hands. He watches her pick up her duffle, walk around the loveseat, throw it down the hall. He hears it land with a crash in the bedroom. He is so glad he tells them all to keep their laptops in separate bags.

Boyd is messing with something in the bedroom, Erica fixes her lipstick, pulls on her high heels, winks at Derek, bounces out the door with a trill of a goodbye.

 

Derek uses the couch to pull himself upright, feeling almost reluctant to move again, walks down the hall, lurks in the door and watches Boyd neatly fold his shirts and put them in the dresser drawer next to Derek’s shirts. His pants go into the drawer where Isaac keeps his. He takes a toiletries bag out of the duffle and folds it up, slides it under the bed. Derek retreats to the doorway that indicates the beginning of the hall from the living room.

Boyd puts his toiletries away in the bathroom, walks across the hall into the second room, unpacks his laptop bag.

“I don’t have a crush on someone,” he says while he plugs in his laptop to charge on Derek’s desk.

“But,” he prompts Boyd, feeling a little uncomfortable.

“There is someone in my statistics class that’s interested in me.” Derek follows Boyd when he goes back into the bedroom, watches him pull out one of the hoodies that don’t belong to anyone in particular. He waits for Boyd to talk, feeling more comfortable when the hoodie’s pack scent mixes with Boyd’s.

“But I don’t know how to tell her that I’m not interested.”

“Why aren’t you?”

Boyd shrugs, moves past Derek into the living room.

“Do you really think it would be a good idea for me to date a human? I mean with what’s happened… it’s not really a smart idea.”

Derek feels stung a little by the comment, knowing that Boyd is talking about what he’s done, what’s happened to Stiles and even to Danny.

“Werewolves aren’t exactly an easy kind to find.”

Boyd shrugs.

“I’d rather wait to see if I could find one I like than put a human through all of this werewolf shit unnecessarily.” Derek can’t really disagree with him, there. It doesn’t tend to go well for the human. “I just don’t want to think about dating until our lives settle down, until we’ve established ourselves. Before then, it’s too dangerous to think about romance.”

Boyd’s phone vibrates. He looks down at it with a frown.

“Is it her?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell her that.”

“What?”

“I’m not- I’m not as good at this stuff as Isaac but I’m pretty sure that people understand when you’ve got too much stuff going on in your life to consider dating.”

Boyd nods. Derek realizes something.

“You just wanted confirmation that you were thinking the right thing.”

He smirks at Derek and taps something out on his phone.

“Yeah, kinda.” Derek can’t even be angry with him for that. 

“Isaac says you should head over to the Argent’s soon since he’s the one who just picked Erica up.”

Derek frowns. Boyd stares at him. It feels a little like a showdown.

“Why can’t you go?”

“Already had plans. You’re the only one who’s free.”

Boyd stuffs his feet into his sneakers and escapes out the door.

Derek changes his mind. He hates them all. Especially Isaac. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and Stiles went shopping. There was stuff and things. Possibly a reference (a very obvious one) to Elvis. It's cool.  
> Then food, name dropping, The gang's all here, folks, Danny and Stiles talk about Fight Club and Memento and the Kafka story that's mentioned is Metamorphosis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will probably proof read through the last two chapters later and revise a lot of shit.

**Sitting in his wheelchair** next to Lydia while she tries on her fifth pair of shoes, Stiles wonders why Lydia even bothers to take him with her when she shops. He’s just an added hassle that she doesn’t need. He can’t even navigate through most stores with how packed they are with stuff and he’s not able to walk the whole mall so it’s not like he can leave the chair at home.

It just seems to upset her, too. Ten minutes ago she made the manager of Body Central cry when Stiles hadn’t even been able to get to the back of the store where the changing rooms were.

“What do you think,” she asks, turns her ankle back and forth, a blue (suede, seriously?) ankle boot on her foot.

“I think it’ll go well with that dress you got from Macy’s.” She nods, stands, walks a few feet, does a little jump, walks back to Stiles.

“I see you’re wearing your Christmas present.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says and taps his left boot with his cane, “they’re nice.” Stiles had thought they were ridiculous until the first time he walked into Chris’ backyard and realized how much extra traction they gave him. With these boots, Stiles was an all-terrain vehicle. Sometimes in his head, he made monster truck noises when walking on unpaved areas.

“They’re much better than those ratty sneakers you were wearing.” She sits down next to him, pulls the boots off, puts them back in the box. Stiles nods.

“I think I trip less since I started wearing them.” Lydia smiles, smoothes a wrinkle out of her skirt.

“The steel toe and added weight of the leather takes more effort to lift than rubber and canvas.”

Stiles is momentarily stunned with adoration.

“Did you put me in weighted shoes on the sly? Seriously?” Lydia flicks his left knee, stands, smiles at him.

“I’m going to go pay for these.” She turns around, tosses over her shoulder a “Don’t go anywhere.”

Stiles smothers a laugh behind his hand. Only Lydia would find a fashionable way for him to do strength training. Holy frijoles, he just loves her so much.

 

 

“Sooo… where are we meeting everyone for lunch?” Stiles pops a wheelie, attempts to orbit Lydia on only two wheels. Lydia smacks the back of his head, making him land on all four wheels, pulls the phone away from her ear, and says, “Stop that The Elephant Bar. I want sweet potato fries. Nothing, I was talking to Stiles. Are you coming? Say yes. Good! See you soon.”

Lydia picks up her bags and deposits them in Stiles’ lap, grabs the handles on his chair, and starts pushing him towards the exit.

“You know I’m not a shopping cart, right?”

“Would you rather push yourself up the ramp?” His arms were actually pretty sore already and those “handicap” ramps were way too steep in Stiles’ opinion. Stiles had gone a long time without really needing his chair and a lot of the callous he’d built up had gone away. His left hand hurt.

“Soooo…” Stiles changes the subject tactfully. “How’s Berkley?”

“I want to gut my professor with the claws that by rights I should have like the sexist trout he is,” she says cheerfully, turning his chair around on the ramp.

“I take it he’s still trying to prove you’re too stupid for higher mathematics?”

“It’s just calculus. It’s not even hard, I learned it in ninth grade.”

“You know,” Stiles says handing her bags to her to put into the back seat of his Jeep, “I can provide you with a solid alibi if you really want to murder him” Stiles is mostly sure he’s joking. Mostly. Lydia kisses his forehead.

“You’re so sweet.”

Stiles grins, stands from his chair, folds it up.

“Careful,” he says while they shove his chair into the trunk, “or else I might think you like me.” She gives him her sharpest smile and reaches for the trunk door.

“Please,” she says, closing the trunk, “You may be cute but it’s like little brother cute.”

“Hahaaa, ouch.” He grins, not even slightly hurt by her comment. For some reason, he thinks of Chris, smiling, running his fingers through his hair at his desk, unaware that Stiles is watching him, while he responds to a text that says Stiles would be spending the night. That was two weeks ago.

 

When they get to the Elephant Bar, Stiles knows exactly where their seats are because Danny and Jackson are residing over a bunch of tables they must have corralled for the group.

“Danny,” Stiles shouts and maneuvers his way over, “I didn’t know you were coming home for spring break.” Danny gives Stiles a tight smile; Lydia gives him a hug, sits down next to Jackson.

“It wasn’t planned.” A muscle in Jackson’s jaw twitches and he glares at Stiles. Who ignores him and takes the seat next to Danny.

“So… how’s Irvine?”

“You’d know if you’d have gone with me.” Stiles tightens his grip on his cane, looks down at his knee, rolls his lips between his teeth. Danny nudges Stiles’ arm, he looks up. Danny’s grinning.

“I missed you, Blinski.” Stiles leans against Danny.

“You’re so into me.” Danny laughs and pushes him away.

“Get over yourself, twerp.”

“Do they even have lacrosse at Irvine?” Jackson picks up his glass of water, mutters, “like you could play anyway,” and takes a sip. Lydia smacks Jackson with the handle of her butter knife across the back of his free hand.

“What the fuck?” She gives him a look that Stiles recognizes from when Jackson used to make constant off-road lacrosse jokes back when Stiles was fully wheelchair bound.

“Ugh, OK, OK.” Jackson scoots away from Danny and Stiles and closer to Lydia. They touch hands briefly before Jackson starts talking about his terrible roommate and how he can’t wait until next semester when they can rent apartments instead of staying in the dorms. Stiles turns his attention to Danny.

“What happened in Irvine?”

“I… Chad broke up with me.”

“What? You two seemed good together.” Stiles covers Danny’s hand on the table with his own. Danny shrugs.

“I guess not.”

“Did he, did he give a reason?” Danny’s eyes slide to the door, Stiles looks that way. Scott is just coming in.

“Can we talk about it later?”

“Sure, how about I go to your house after we finish here?”

“I’m coming, too,” Lydia chimes in. “Anyway, Pleinman is a total bottom feeder, we should get him fired.” Jackson nods seriously at Lydia’s statement, says:

“Next month’s goal?” She smiles and nods.

“Super!”

Scott sits down next to Stiles.

“They’re ‘super’ creepy,” Scott says, jostling Stiles’ elbow on the table as he settles in.

“Just be glad that they’re on our side.” Scott nods solemnly.

“Where’s Allison ‘n’ Erica?” Danny cuts in.

“Erica is on her way with Isaac. She had to unpack before she could come and Allison is gonna be dropped off by her dad after they’ve, uh, finished… doing… business… stuff.” Scott fidgets, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Stiles knows he’ll probably never be completely comfortable with his girlfriend’s ‘business.’

“Speaking of- Hey, Erica!” Stiles waves and grins after spotting her. She smiles back, tilts her head, gives a little wave, sits down next to Scott who leans over to press a slow kiss onto Erica’s lips. Isaac stares at Stiles briefly before making eye contact with everyone else at the table. He sits down in the seat, facing the door with his back to the wall, a seat between him and Lydia.

“Missed you,” Scott says to Erica in his goofiest sop voice. Erica smiles and rests her forehead against his. Stiles turns away, feeling uncomfortable watching the schmoopy lovebirds. For some reason, he thinks of Chris pressing a kiss to his neck to let him know he’s awake, of the way he’d asked Stiles how his dinner with his dad had gone while half-asleep. Stiles clears his throat, looks at Danny.

“Sssooo… did you drive yourself or did you get a ride?”

“Jackson picked me up from the airport, I haven’t even been home yet.”

“Wow, you must be tired.” Danny rolls his eyes at Stiles. Everyone knows about Stiles’ belief that travelling drains people of their souls, a belief that Stiles holds firm by.

“Nah, not really. Getting on an early morning plane is no different than cramming for exams, except I don’t have to memorize boring crap.”

“Did you read that short story I sent you?”

“Uh, the one with the care package or the one you emailed to me?”

“Care package.”

“I’m not a Kafka fan.”

“But it’s hilarious!”

“…ly depressing.”

Stiles scratches at the tabletop.

“Yeah… that’s true.” His eyes run over the restaurant as he thinks. He nudges Danny with his shoulder.

“What about the movie I sent you?’ Danny grins, looks down at the table, darts his eyes at Scott, looks back at Stiles.

“It was good. Kind of reminded me of Fight Club.” Stiles’ mouth drops open.

“I… I think I may be in love with you.” Danny laughs, Scott elbows him hard in the side with a hiss, and their waiter comes. Boyd takes the seat next to Isaac, gripping his shoulder briefly before letting it flop on the table. Isaac smiles at him and nudges Boyd’s elbow with his own. Allison sits down just as the waiter finishes taking their drink order.

Everyone is talking, reaching across the table, laughing, jostling each other, being an all-around nuisance to the rest of the establishment.

Lydia’s order of sweet potato fries come and everyone tries to sneak one from her. The only one who succeeds is Jackson; everyone else ends up with fork indents in the backs of their hands.

Stiles can tell it’s going to be a good lunch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is everyone doing with my time jumps? I hop they're not too difficult to navigate. I just am lazy and don't want to write anything that I don't think is important or serves a purpose.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there wouldn't be anything awkward at all at the Argent household when the only two people there are Chris and Derek... yup... nothing awkward there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't like it then blame The Matches.

**Derek arrives at the Argent house** right when Argent is pulling up. Argent waits in his garage, staring at Derek with his hands clenched as Derek gets out of his car and walks up.

“What’s in the bag,” Argent asks. Derek can tell he’s definitely tense. Good. Derek is, too.

“Clothes. Allison’s idea.” Argent nods, turns, opens the door into the house, presses the button for the garage door once Derek is inside.

“Did she specify where she wanted them?” Derek shakes his head. He wishes he had words. He wishes that he could shove Chris Argent against a wall and bare his teeth, keep shoving Argent against the wall until the smell of his own blood covers up the claiming scent of Stiles all over him. Argent frowns.

“You can put them in the spare room if you want.” Argent pulls out his phone, taps rapidly, puts his phone in his pocket. Derek is biting his tongue so hard that the flesh breaks, bleeds, heals, breaks again. He turns, heads up the stairs, images of Argent touching Stiles, Argent pressing Stiles against his bedroom door, kissing him, biting him, Stiles’ winces and moans (that Derek still remembers from when they were together.) The whole upstairs consists of several shut doors. Derek hates it when all the doors to a place are closed. It feels wrong, unnatural. He misses his home, running down the hall past open door and lit rooms, rushing across the hall to Laura’s room, sneaking past mom and dad’s open door in the hopes of getting a cookie.

He takes an educated guess at which door opens up into the guest room. And the winner is… Derek Hale: two gold stickers and an empty room for him. Derek rifles through the duffle, pulls out the iPad the pack got him for Christmas, puts the bag in the closet, shoves the tiny headphone things Erica insists on buying into his ears (he hates them- they go into his ears and feel awful and weird) and sits down on the bed.

Derek’s trying to guess what Scott could possibly be drawing in DrawSomething when he hears Argent’s feet, before in the den, head up the stairs. He ignores him and tries to figure out what in all hell six squiggles in different colors and a bunch of red arrows have to do with anything that’s eight letters long.

Argent knocks on the half-open door and Derek looks up.

“Allison said to make the room look lived-in. Should I unpack the bag or do you want to do it?” Derek flips the cover closed, leaves the music playing, pulls the headphones out, and stands.

“Ah… you’ve got it then. I’ll be in the basement if you want me.” Chris turns, walks back down the hall. Derek pulls the duffle bag out and sets it on top of the dresser, wonders what Stiles could possibly see in that man, clenches his hand around a T-shirt, grinds his teeth. His smell is everywhere. The whole place just smelled like Stiles’. It was almost like he—like maybe he lived here. Derek sets the T-shirt in the middle drawer, flattens it back out with his hand, reaches into the duffle for the rest of them, stacks them on top of the first one.

The smell of his pack and detergent wafts up to him from the bag. It’s comforting. Derek stuffs sweatpants, shorts, underwears of various types, socks, and hoodies into various drawers and shoves the duffle bag under the bed before crawling on top of it. The bed smells like citrus detergent. Argent must have switched from the lilac detergent he’d used before. Derek wonders when Argent started letting Stiles pick out his laundry detergent. It’s the same scent as Stiles’.

His iPad beeps. Derek picks it up, thankful for the distraction. Erica has sent him pictures it looks like. He smiles, opens up his messenger box. She does this sometimes, when she thinks he needs it, whenever Isaac asks her to. There’s a picture of Isaac and Boyd scrunching their faces up, teeth bared in an overdone smile, one of Scott making an O face, eyes scrunched shut as well, there’s Lydia smiling at the camera, head tilted with Jackson next to her looking like her personal thundercloud, there’s one of Danny making the same scrunched up face that Isaac and Boyd made, grinning, Stiles is half in the frame, looking to the right of the camera, mouth open, and obviously talking to what is probably Scott. Their table is covered in plates of food.

Derek smiles, happier now knowing his pack is together and well. Speaking of food, Derek could really go for some, he realizes. He wonders for about half a second if it would be rude of him to raid Argent’s fridge then images of Stiles at Argent’s kitchen table, Scott sleeping in Allison’s bed, Lydia reclining on the couch come to him and he gets over it. He grips his iPad like a shield and rolls off the bed, stands, flexes his toes against the hardwood floor, and leaves the room.

Walking down the stairs, Derek can smell Isaac still, a little bit of Erica, Lydia’s scent is fresh in the living room when he passes by and he realizes that his pack is no stranger here. In the pantry, Derek finds a box of ramen that Argent probably keeps for his daughter and her friends (his pack). He sets up at the kitchen table and gets a glass of water.

Sitting, he smashes the ramen package against the table edge, opens the bag, pulls out the bullion packet, dumps its contents in the ramen bag, fists the open end shut, and shakes. His iPad beeps again so Derek opens it with his free hand. Chewing on a mouthful of dry ramen, he taps into Erica’s window-thing (he doesn’t even know what to call it). He hears Argent come up from the basement, walk into the kitchen, he doesn’t bother turning around. Instead he taps on the first of the new pictures Erica has sent him.

Scott and Allison have their eyes scrunched shut, Allison is peaking out of one eye, they have their cheeks pressed together and their tongues sticking out at the camera. Argent stands behind Derek. He smells like gun oil and wolfsbain and Stiles.

Derek flips to the next picture: Jackson has his eyes open, giving the camera the bird between the lens flare from his eyes, Lydia is turned to the right, talking. Next to Jackson, Stiles and Danny are leaning into each other, unaware of the camera, Stiles has a fond smile on his face, and one arm around Danny’s shoulders. Danny is looking down and away from the table, his head partially hidden by Stiles’. Danny must have told Stiles about Chad. Derek never liked Chad anyway. Chad was a stupid name.

Argent’s heart beats a little faster briefly when Derek flips to the next one. Danny has his eyes scrunched shut, a slightly grossed out but amused and fond look on his face. Stiles is licking the side of Danny’s face, hands bracketing it to keep him in place, a grin stretched around his open mouth. Derek’s heart skips a beat, too. He flips to the next one.

Allison, Erica, and Scott have their cheeks puffed up, eyes scrunched, the photo is off-centered and cuts off part of Erica’s head. Derek knows that Erica took it. They look happy. Derek grabs another handful of ramen and shoves it into his mouth, making sure to chew at loudly as he could with his mouth closed. Argent moves away from Derek, turns on the kitchen sink, the smell of sour apple dawn fills the kitchen briefly.

Derek wonders if it bothers Argent that his daughter is dating two people, wonders if he disapproves or if he, too, wants that kind of thing. Derek doesn’t. He’s happy for Erica and Scott, truly happy. They’ve found each other and another and love each other fiercely and fully but Derek knows he’d never be able to do that.

He… doesn’t have it in him.

Argent leaves the kitchen and heads to the den. Derek opens up iTunes and turns on some of Erica’s dubstep. He hates it, really, truly, thinks it sounds like shit, but he likes the reminders of his pack. He has some of all of their favorite music.

They all have terrible taste in music.

Except for Isaac; his music tends to be pretty OK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of getting discouraged from the lack of commenting the farther in I go. Haha.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a jackass, Stiles has a good day that turns bad very rapidly, Chris is more cryptic than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A TRIGGER WARNING:  
> In this chapter is content that can be triggering. Warnings for: non-consent, bullying, and I think there is a few more. It's not very graphic. No one is raped or forced into doing a sex act but there is a scene that could be triggering to people with issues involving nonconsensual actions.  
> I've framed the scene with ~~ for the people who want to skip it. It isn't very violent or very graphic but I felt that I should warn anyway.

**By the time Stiles drops Lydia** off, it’s late enough that Stiles’ is the only car on the road. The emptiness of the roads and the quiet of his car provide him with too much empty air. He tries to think of nothing, tries to let his mind go blank with the activity of driving.

He turns on to Outer Road and listens to the wind blowing, his tires’ tread on the road, he thinks of Danny. He thinks of his face, angled down, mouth frowning, talking quietly, helplessly, about Chad’s paranoia, his revulsion at the closeness of the pack, his suspicions about Danny’s fidelity. He thinks about how sad Danny looked, how desolate his eyes were, his fear that he’d never find someone who could accept him the way he is, for the way he lived and what he was.

Stiles hears the squeak of leather and skin and realizes that he’s gripping the wheel too tightly. He feels helpless. Danny is hurting and there’s nothing Stiles can do to mend it.

Maybe they’re all doomed, he thinks, looking to his passenger seat briefly before turning into Chris’ neighborhood. Maybe none of them are allowed a healthy, stable, and happy relationship. Maybe all he gets is this… non-relationship with Chris.

What if this is all Stiles gets? These pseudo-moments, held breath and reading the subtexts of every action, pretending he feels nothing about this… proto-relationship they have.

What are his feelings anyway? What did he feel for Chris? And what about Chris for him? Stiles pulls up in front of the Argent house. Does he even belong here?

Stiles shuts off his jeep, puts the parking break on, climbs out of the car. He debates trying to bring in his wheelchair but decides against it, locks the Jeep’s doors, and levers himself up the curb and towards the house.

The house isn’t as quiet or dark as usual. In the living room, he finds Isaac, Erica, Scott, and Allison locked in what looks to be an intense game of Mario Kart. Stiles stands in the doorway, watching them play and feels disconnected.

They’re his friends, in a way his family, but… they will never know how tired, exhausted, how jaded and beaten he feels. They’ll never know the worries that Stiles faces: never have to wonder about liver damage and narcotics, they’ll never have to make sure their homes are handicap accessible, about finding a job that will work with them, never understand how frustrating and terrifying a simple set of stairs can be.

They’ll never know how scared Stiles is all the time.

Stiles hears steps behind him, turns because they don’t sound like Chris, and comes face to face with Derek. His grip tightens on his cane; mouth sets firmly in a frown, and heads to the kitchen, away from Derek.

Derek follows.

Of course he does. Stiles can’t escape anything. When he reaches the island, he remembers Chris picking him up, kissing him so desperately. He turns angry.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to lurk?”

A muscle in Derek’s jaw twitches. Stiles knows he’s grinding his teeth. Fuck, Stiles can still read every expression that Derek makes. There is confusion, hurt, that ever-present anger, and a sort of hopefulness that Derek only ever seems to have in regards to Stiles. Derek stands there, silent.

Stiles watches him, every micro expression a reminder of something to Stiles.

“I… wasn’t expecting you to be here,” Derek says and Stiles knows, always, always knows, what he means. Stiles smiles because he hurts, always hurts, says, “Neither did I.”

Derek steps into Stiles’ personal space. Stiles wonders if this should feel uncomfortable: standing in his—lover’s kitchen, talking to his ex who crippled him for life in probably more than physical ways.

Derek steps closer, raises his arm, hesitates. Stiles can hear the end round music from the living room. Erica is laughing and calling everyone a loser. Derek cups Stiles’ upper arm. His hand doesn’t cover all of the ball of Stiles’ arm. He can hear Derek’s breathing, the countdown music for Mario Kart. He can’t stop looking down at his and Derek’s shoes. The soft, dull leather of his boots makes Derek’s sneakers seem out of place, clownishly ridiculous, against the kitchen floor.

Stiles takes a shaky breath, his stomach is in his throat, knocking on his tonsils, asking to be let out of Stiles’ mouth. He screws his mouth shut, bites down on both of his lips, afraid of what will come out. He feels seventeen again: shaky, unsure, and dependent. Stiles leans into Derek’s touch.

He can hear Isaac and Erica badmouthing each other playfully. Derek’s other hand comes up, cups Stiles’ cheek. He closes his eyes, breaths. His heart is racing and he’s afraid.

“Stiles…” Derek’s voice sounds lost and painfully hopeful. Stiles knows, always knows, what Derek is asking.

“I… don’t know, Derek. You hurt me.” Here Derek’s hands tense against him.

“What you did wasn’t OK at all, you know that, right?”

Derek shifts closer to Stiles, his left hand sliding back as if to pull Stiles against him.

“I’m not a possession; I’m not a tug toy that you can rough about without consequence.”

“I didn’t—“

“No listen to me. I’m human. I’m a person and I deserve my autonomy.”

Derek’s hands drops from Stiles and he feels cut, lighter than he was before.

“I know, I—“

“No,” Stiles says, edging away from Derek. “You don’t know. Or. You didn’t. What you’ve done to me shows that.”

There’s not enough room in this kitchen, in this house, this town. He misses his apartment. Misses the city full of strangers and obscurity. He needs to get out, he needs to leave. He can’t hear anything. The rush of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart, his quick, unsteady breathing, Allison yelling, Erica laughing, Scott talking, Isaac giving war-cries, Derek’s breathing. The sheer press of Beacon Hill’s existence is too much for Stiles.

Then—there are arms around him, a warm chest, a rough neck against his face, strong arms around him. He smells loam and oak and Axe deodorant. It’s familiar; he knows these smells, the feel of those arms, the tickle of Derek’s hair against his ear.

“I’m sorry. Every day I’m sorry. I—screwed up. I failed you.”

Stiles relaxes, drops his cane, without him telling them to, his hands come up, fist the material of Derek’s shirt over his stomach.

It’s not enough. He’s still angry with Derek, still hates what he did to him. He can never forgive Derek but… it’s more than he thought he’d ever get.

“You fucked it up.” Stiles feels Derek nod, tighten his grip he has on Stiles, his hand slides up and down the back of Stiles’ head where he holds Stiles against his shoulder.

“I loved you. I thought we were forever. You were my world.” Derek nuzzles the side of Stiles’ head, pushes his nose into Stiles’ neck and Stiles is lost, saying things he shouldn’t, doing things he shouldn’t. This is a mistake, he knows. This is so many mistakes in a row.

“I still could be.” Stiles shakes his head, takes a deep breath. Moon above, Derek smells so good.

“Let me take care of you.”

Stiles smiles. It had been exhilarating, wonderful to be consumed by Derek, to have that knowledge and surety of being his but... there were these moments, and the more he looked, the more he found, where he had felt helpless, less, trapped. He looks back and his bile rises at the things he let Derek do to him. Stiles tastes something bitter in his mouth.

“No.”

“Stiles—“ Derek’s voice is open, empty of doubt, full of ownership. Stiles pulls away, Derek’s arms tighten briefly, Stiles pushes harder, forcing Derek to let him go.

“That’s not how it works. I can’t be happy like that. I refuse to live for someone else.” Stiles and Derek are only two feet apart but it feels like a canyon between them, populated by all of New York. The clamor and crowding of it drains the last dregs of residual hope for him and Derek away, gives him the strength to say:

“I loved you so much, so much, Derek. It was,” he falters, takes a big breath, continues: “Overwhelming. It consumed me. I loved you and you betrayed that. We could have been something, something amazing and you destroyed it.”

Derek looks desperate but hopeful.

“That night—“ Stiles laughs, shakes his head.

“It wasn’t just that. The way you treated me was wrong. I wasn’t happy. I, I only stayed so long because I loved you. I’ll probably always love you. It hasn’t gone away yet and I doubt it ever will but I refuse, refuse, to let myself be treated like that again.”

Derek’s eyes flash, eyebrows pull up, mouth constricts, hands clench. He lets out a frustrated noise, flings his hands down. Stiles crosses his arms, leans heavier onto his left leg. He wishes he had his cane but he doesn’t want to go over to where it lays on the floor next to Derek to get it.

~~

Derek makes this aggressive whine that Stiles recognizes, causes him to tense. For good reason. Derek lunges at Stiles, shoves him against the cabinets, crowds so close that Stiles can feel Derek’s breath against his cheek.

“I love you,” he says, leaving quick brushes of his lips and cheek against Stiles. It feels good, the scrape of it against Stiles’ own stubble. He can remember so many times of how good this feels, how nice the scrape of Derek’s constant half-beard against his neck, his stomach feels. He can remember every desperate fuck, slow fuck, joyous fuck that they ever did with the scrape of his stubble on Stiles’ cheek.

“I love you and you love me. What else is there?” He kisses this spot between Stiles’ jaw, cheek, and ear that he knows is particularly sensitive. Stiles feels sick, his hands fisting uselessly at his sides. He’s weak, helpless, absolutely revolted. “Be mine again, Stiles. Be mine,” Derek murmurs, lowers his mouth towards Stiles’, eyes sliding shut…

No. Just no. Never again. Stiles turns his face away, uncurls his hands, tries to push Derek away.

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” Stiles pushes again but Derek doesn’t budge. Stiles pushes as hard as he can. Derek tries to kiss him again, his hands holding Stiles’ shoulders.

“Stop it.” Stiles shoves his hand against Derek’s face, trying to turn away as much as possible. Derek grabs Stiles’ wrists, pins them against the cabinets. He leans in again. Stiles panics, suddenly more afraid than he’s been in over a year. He knees Derek in the groin. Derek lets go of Stiles, backs away, hands cupping his groin. Stiles falls to the floor.

Fuck, that hurt. His knee, _fuck,_ his knee. Shit, he feels like he’s going to throw up, he can barely breath, it hurts so much.

“Stiles,” Derek says again and, _shit,_ he sounds hurt, emotionally injured from Stiles’ actions and just no, that’s not OK- he doesn’t get to feel hurt because Stiles defended himself. Stiles drags himself across the floor towards his cane. It hurts, fuck, every inch he moves sends a strip of pain up his leg.

“You fucking _bastard._ You can’t just,” Stiles gasps for breath, “bully me into being with you.” His words are slurring together and he feels like the skin on his knee is being pulled off in pieces like fruit rollups off of wax paper. “You’re not gonna be able to shove me into a wall and expect that to make me want you.” Sweet mercy from below, Stiles’ hand wraps around the cool wood of his cane. He gets his left knee under him, grabs the counter, plants his cane on the floor, and heaves. For a moment, he feels like he’s going to fall over, dizzy from the pain of it.

Stiles is panting, his grip on the counter and his cane so tight that he feels as if the bones in his fingers are digging into the hard surfaces under them. Derek is breathing heavily somewhere outside of Stiles’ limited sight. His voice is dark, angry, when he speaks.

“It worked the first time around.”

Stiles throws the first thing he gets his hand on. He watches only long enough to see the bowl hit Derek’s hunched shoulder, watches it shatter on contact, bananas, apples and oranges flying everywhere. Stiles turns, limps as fast as he can out of the kitchen, out into the backyard.

~~

It’s quiet outside. Stiles can hear crickets and frogs chirping. He takes deep breaths, leans heavily on his cane. He can hear voices inside, talking, a little shouting- he doesn’t care, mutters under his breath “leave me alone, just leave me alone,” on repeat in the hopes that the werewolves or some godess will hear him and take mercy, be kind for once.

He’s around the far side of the shed slower than he wants, quicker than he expected. He breathes a sigh of relief. No one followed. Stiles turns his head from the backdoor to the house and the bright squares of light the windows emit. Chris is sitting on the edge of a sturdy wood planter, inside of which is the Argent supply of deadly flora.

“Chris, hey.” Stiles smiles but he knows it isn’t very convincing, takes the six or so steps to him, slowly, and painfully, lowers himself onto the planter next to him.

“Hey,” Chris says, raises his hand to his mouth, takes a drag off of the cigarette in his hand. Stiles watches Chris inhale, hold, exhale slowly, lower his hand back down.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t—didn’t. Victoria is allergic.” Chris looks down at the cigarette, frowns, flicks his thumbnail across the butt, says “or I should say was. She was allergic, so I quit.”

“Oh,” Stiles feels awkward, unsure. They don’t talk about her much. At all. Ever. Chris takes another draw, flicks it again with his thumbnail, an action that Stiles knows well. He’s seen Chris do that countless times to pens, forks, the nock of an arrow. On an impulse, Stiles grabs the cigarette from Chris, takes a deep pull, holds his breath, and lets it out when he starts to feel light headed. There’s that rush, that burning ache in the back of his throat. He makes sure to breath slowly, feeling the smoke drift out of his mouth, watches it with half-closed eyes.

“Now I know you don’t smoke,” Chris says, a half amused tone in his voice. He reaches over, reclaims his cigarette.

“When the situation calls for it,” Stiles says, turns to watch Chris’ lips wrap around the cigarette, his throat flex as he inhales, the way the ember lights up his hand and the center of his eyes.

“What situations would that be?” Chris drops his hand down, resting his elbow on his bent knee, looking out into the dark lawn. Stiles leans over, runs his fingers over the back of Chris’ arm, wraps his fingers around Chris’ wrist, half of his hand, pulls his arm towards his face. Stiles stares down the cherry of Chris’ cigarette and wraps his lips around the filter, inhales slowly, watches Chris’ free hand twitch where it hangs alone in the air, feels how passive Chris’ right hand is under his own.

Stiles pulls away slowly, holding in the smoke, lets go of Chris’ wrist. Measures the distance between his thigh and Chris’ with his eyes, exhales, says, “Usually flirting.” Stiles flicks his eyes up to Chris’ slowly. There’s a guarded look on Chris’ face, it’s calm, considering. It’s a look that Stiles hasn’t seen for ten months or more. Chris quirks his eyebrows.

“Asking to bum a cigarette is a good way to initiate conversation, gives you something to do with your mouth, your hands.”

“I saw you two,” Chris says slowly, levelly, staring steadily into Stiles’ eyes. Stiles heart thumps once, twice. Chris lays his left arm across his lap, almost like he’s holding his stomach in, his right arm still stretched out, cigarette burning slowly in his hand.

“Saw what?” Chris breaks eye contact, looks down at his cigarette.

“In the kitchen. You said you loved—he was—” He smiles small, bitter. It breaks Stiles’ already battered heart. “I had hoped… it doesn’t matter. I hope you two are ha—” Stiles laughs. He can’t help it. This is his life. This, this ridiculousness. He almost wishes he could go back to being the loser teen that couldn’t even talk to girls, who didn’t quite realize why it didn’t bother him.

“No, oh m’dear. No. I am so not going there again. Ever.”

“You said you were—” Stiles cuts him off, laying his palm on Chris’s knee, his fingers encompassing the entirety of it.

“Were being the operative word there. I _was_ in love with him. I am no more. It’s… complicated between us. I think it always will be. I helped make his pack. I was pivotal to, really. And it’s not like I can just permanently cut him from my life. His pack are my friends.” Chris slowly, as if he’s afraid to spook Stiles, moves his left arm away from his body, turns his arm, haltingly slides his hand over Stiles’.

“I know. I just… seeing—you were in his arms and—” Chris sighs, laughs self-deprecatingly, looks away from Stiles. There are a lot of things about this, about tonight, about all of the shit that’s going on in Stiles’ life that are just wrong and full of mistakes. He regrets so much in his life, is anxious about so many things, unsure about himself and what little he has to hold on to. One thing, the one thing right now that he’s sure of is what he does.

Stiles rotates his wrist, slowly flexing the muscles in his arm, he watches in shocked awe as his hand turns over, his fingers slide between Chris’, hold firmly onto his hand. He did that. He… totally did that. There is no denying it now. Not with the evidence right in front of his face, right there in his palm.

Chris startles, Stiles can see his head whip around, his whole body twitches. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes when he feels Chris’ fingers slowly close around Stiles’ hand. He leans over, rests his head on Chris’ shoulder.

“There’s no reason for me to be anywhere else.” It doesn’t make sense, really. What he says. Chris never asked him but… maybe Stiles was answering his own question. Shyly, Chris runs his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand, rests his head against Stiles. They listen to the crickets and the frogs chirp. Chris’ cigarette burns out slowly in his right hand, untouched. Stiles closes his eyes, smells gardenias and gun oil, cut grass and soil.

For some unaccountable reason he feels like now, finally, he’s gotten home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how happy I am with it. I might come back this weekend and revise the whole damn thing.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek should just stop spying on people.  
> Also found: feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lauraby.

**The house is quiet** , comparatively, to the noise of earlier when everyone had been awake. It chafes at him; he misses the ruckus of a full house, the constant and reassuring noise of life. He lives for the weekends when he and Isaac stay over at Boyd and Erica’s, the holidays where everyone gathers together.

Derek listens to the quiet house. Erica, Scott, and Allison are lying in Allison’s bed, whispering to each other, he can hear their movements through the ceiling, the sounds of kissing.

Erica laughs, gasps Allison’s name. Derek turns his ears elsewhere. Isaac turns over in his bed and Derek’s heart turns over, remembering Isaac’s sad, disappointed face as he stood behind Allison and Scott. Derek runs a hand over his mouth. It doesn't hurt anymore but at least he can be proud of teaching Erica how to properly throw a punch. It had hurt, just as much as Allison’s threats and Scott’s shouting. Almost as much as Isaac’s face, the way he’d stood there with this look like Derek had let him down. Derek pushes his face into the couch cushion, smells Isaac and Erica, Lydia and Scott, Stiles and Argent.

They’ve been in backyard for an hour, he hadn’t even heard them speak, and if they’ve moved it’s been so little, so quiet that the rustle of trees has drowned it out. Derek’s not sure how Stiles has managed to be so still and silent for so long.

“Hey,” he hears Argent say and Derek starts, surprised at his voice. It’s soft, gentle in a way that Derek has never heard. Stiles hums.

“It’s late.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“We should go to bed.”

“Why, Mister Argent, are you propositioning me?”

Argent huffs, Derek hears movement. Stiles hisses.

“Are you… did you hurt your knee?” There’s silence. Derek buries himself further into the couch cushions with the hopes of becoming invisible.

“Stiles?” Stiles sighs.

“I may have aggravated it by… kneeing… Derek… in the balls.” There’s the sound of movement again.

“What happened? What did he do?”

“Give me a hand?”

They don’t talk again. The silence is filled with Stiles’ huffing breaths and wheezes of pain.

“Jesus, what did he do to you?” More silence. Derek wishes he could see them, wishes he could see Stiles’ face, what they’re doing when they’re not talking.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you want me to kill him?”

Derek’s hands clench, Stiles laughs.

“You’re so sweet. No, Lancelot, I can slay my own dragons.”

“Kick him out, I meant kick him out.” Argent doesn’t even sound like he believes himself. There’s the sound of kissing.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

“I did!” There’s a hissing sound.

“Ffffffuck,” Stiles says. Derek can hear how pained his breathing is.

“Can you walk?”

“I got out here alright.”

Silence again, more sounds of movement.

“Hey!”

Stiles huffs.

“Ahhaha. You can’t just do that.”

“I can’t?”

Derek hears one set of feet. Then Stiles says quietly, a little muffled:

“Surprised the shit out of me.”

“Hope not.”

“Haa.”

The sound of one set of steps, only one set.

“Will you get that?”

The backdoor opens, closes. Derek wonders if he stays still enough if they won’t notice him in the dark.

“How did I end up with the oldest pony in the race?”

“It was the only one slow enough for you to catch.”

“Wicked tongue! Your wit, it has cut me. _So sharp._ ”

“I’ll show you what my tongue can do…”

Derek feels sick. They pass by the living room. Argent has Stiles in his arms, Stiles’ head rests on Argent’s shoulder, his arms around his neck, cane held in, what looks to be, a practiced hold against Argent’s back.

“Mm. Please do.”

Derek hears the rustle of clothes, Argent’s sharp intake of breath.

“Do you want me to drop you?”

“I’ve got faith in you.”

It’s awkwardly silent, Chris gasps, Stiles laughs.

“Seriously, though. Don’t drop me. That wouldn’t be very dashing at all, Lance.”

Chris is breathing heavy, they’ve stopped moving. Derek wants to leave, wants to run and never come back, wants to tear Argent until he is but gunk caught under Derek’s nails.

“Shit,” Argent hisses. There’s the rustle of clothes again, sounds of kissing, what could be the rub of a hand through hair.

“Come on,” Stiles says, there’s more kissing sounds, “Carry me to bed so that we can figure out what else that tongue of yours can do.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

They climb the stairs; the only sounds are the noises of a mouth against skin, Argent’s heavy breathing. Derek is going to be sick. He tries to listen to anything else, the crickets outside, a train in the distance, the neighbor’s TV but it doesn’t help. He keeps tuning in to their heavy breathing, the rustle of sheets, Stiles chanting “Chris,” the strangely high-pitched moans Argent makes, the slap of flesh, Stiles stuttering out sentences in between Argent’s name.

Derek doesn’t want to listen to this, doesn’t want to at all. Stiles sounds so familiar yet entirely strange. Stiles’ noises are recognizable (so much so that Derek is getting a little hard listening) but… off. There’s a difference in what he says, the tone of his voice. Derek can’t figure out what but it’s different, he’s different.

And that right there is it: Stiles has changed. He’s not the same boy Derek knew anymore. Sure, he’s recognizable but being with Argent has changed him. Derek doubts it’s for the better.

Stiles says, “You beautiful fucking angel,” and Derek knows he’s coming. It’s quiet for a few minutes. Derek relaxes, unclenches his fists, rests his hand on his stomach and the other one he tucks behind his head, closes his eyes.

He’s drifting off to sleep to the familiar cadence of Isaac’s heart when he hears it. A rhythmic slapping noise anyone with a dick would recognize. _Holy fuck_ , do they ever stop? Derek’s eyes snap open. Argent’s breath is coming in these strange interrupted bouts like he’s having trouble breathing. These are all things that Derek never wanted to know.

“Fuck, you’re so damn beautiful like this,” Stiles murmurs and oh, oh no. He just got done listening to Stiles repeat Argent’s name like it was some sort of prayer and now this? Please, just no.

“I wish I could keep you like this all the time, naked and wet.”

Derek squeezes his arms against his head, hoping irrationally that he can muffle this enough that he can’t hear, can’t hear any of this at all. It doesn’t help at all. He still hears kissing, Argent’s strange hitching breathes, every stroke.

“Your cock looks so good, all red and leaking for me.”

Argent makes another high-pitched noise and no. No, no, no, no, nononononoo.

“Are you going to come for me, Chris?”  

Argent’s breathing is becoming even more stunted, these hard little stops punctuating every intake of breath.

“Shit, you’re leaking so much already. You liked my cock, didn’t you?”

Stiles is saying the dirtiest shit, Derek doesn’t remember Stiles ever talking like this.

“Didn’t you?”

Argent lets out this muffled shout, hisses, “Yes.”

“How about my fingers inside of you. You like this, too.”

Argent makes a strangled sort of noise.

“Look at you, blushing. Are you feeling self-conscious? You shouldn’t, you know. You look good like this.”

Derek’s ears are turning red; he can feel the blood rushing in his body.

“Chris,” wet, kissing noises. Fuck. “Chris, fuck yourself.”

“What?” Argent’s voice sounds as hysterical as Derek feels.

“Fuck yourself. Come on.” Argent makes another noise, Derek can hear the mattress move, Argent panting.

“Fuck yes. Hey Chris, do you think you could come like this? With just my fingers inside you?”

Derek bites his lip. Stiles sounds so casual, so conversational, like he’s talking about the weather today.

“I think I’d like to watch you do that.”

Argent makes a strangled noise, Stiles gasps, and Derek bites through his lip.

“Fuck, your dick’s turning purple.” Stiles sounds so exuberant. Derek is baffled. He licks the blood off of his lip, sucks on it to make the sting go away.

“Could you seriously come from this?” Stiles’ voice is surprised, shaken and breathless. Derek bites through his lip again. This almost musical sounding moan comes out of Argent.

“You licentious little tart!” Stiles laughs. Derek wishes he was somewhere else.

“Do it. Come on, Chris. Come. I want to see you come from this. Shit, your dick is leaking so much. How can your mouth be so dry and your dick so wet? Do you just like store up all the liquid of your body in your balls or something?”

“Stiles.” Stiles huffs.

“Then come already. I want to watch you dirty yourself up and I can’t do that if you won’t come.”

Stiles’ voice changes, deepens, becomes a little obscene.

“I should make you eat it. Make you come from my fingers and then feed you your jizz.

Argent makes this weird little huffing cry of a whine and, Derek is sure, comes. There are some wet noises in between Argent panting. Derek’s imagination is creative enough for him to know what that is.

Fuck, that shouldn’t have been so hot. Derek adjusts himself as he closes his eyes and attempts to fall asleep again.

 

 

Derek wakes up to the sound of pounding. He’s on his feet and out of the living room before he’s awake enough to process why the pounding is so urgent to him. Isaac. It’s Isaac’s heart. Derek climbs the stairs carefully and as quick as he can. He can hear Isaac turning in his bed.

He hesitates before opening the door, remembering Isaac’s words earlier when Derek had tried to join him in bed. Isaac lets out a cut off whine and Derek shoves aside the “You’re not welcome tonight,” he can remember so well. Inside the room, Derek can add the sight of Isaac struggling with the sheets to the sounds of it. Derek is next to the bed before he thinks to take a step.

Slowly, Derek eases himself onto the bed, he reaches out to touch Isaac, stops, says, “’saac? Wake up.”

Isaac startles awake, tensing into a still ball of nervousness.

“’erek?”

Derek leans more of his weight onto one hip. Isaac turns over, pulls Derek until he’s half-laying against the headboard, wraps Derek’s arms around himself, half on the pillows, half on Derek. He listens to Isaac’s heart slow down, runs the side of his thumb up and down Isaac’s arm. Isaac moves, wedges his head between Derek’s jaw and shoulder, his curly hair tickles but Derek doesn’t want to move him.

Derek turns a little on his side and tightens his arms around Isaac. He wishes they were shirtless, wishes he could feel the reassuring warmth of Isaac’s skin against his. Derek buries his nose in Isaac’s hair, inhales as deep as he can.

“Did you ever have any nicknames?”

Derek doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know if he wants to, does anyway because Isaac asked, because Derek always wants to give Isaac what he wants, even if it hurts him.

“Mattie used to call me Rex.”

Isaac squirms until only his shoulder and side are on Derek, cranes his neck to look at him.

“Who?”

Derek swallows, starts to bite his tongue, stops.

“My baby sister, Martha.” Derek smiles, sadly. “She was convinced that I was going to be a were-dinosaur when she was five. I was a… late bloomer, so to speak. It was her way of making me feel better about it.”

Isaac turns, faces Derek, rests his hand on Derek’s hip.

“You’ve never mentioned her before.”

“She was twelve when—when the fire—” Derek can’t finish the sentence, has never been able to say it. Not since that first year. Not since he chanted it into Laura’s hair while she held him on the train out of town. It’s silent for a few minutes. Isaac’s hand stills on Derek’s hip.

“Can I call you Rick?”

“Not in front of anyone else.”

Isaac snorts, his fingers absently stroke the shape of Derek’s hip. Something stirs low in Derek’s belly.

“Can I call you Zack?”

Isaac smirks, tilts his head down, looks at Derek through his messy shock of hair.

“Not in front of anyone else.”

Derek brushes Isaac’s hair out of his face, rests his hand on Isaac’s bicep. Isaac scoots closer, presses his body against Derek’s, pushing his head into the space under Derek’s chin.

“I’ve never had a nickname before,” Isaac says. Derek wraps his arms tight around Isaac, listens to his heartbeat until he falls asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this last night but I went to my friend's house, got blitzed, played board games, and spazzed over their pet ferret. Caboose is fucking adorable. Anyway, here it is.


	19. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles dreams. Chris watches him sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kind of wrote this last night while I was watching The Road To El Dorado with The Wife. So.... yeah.....
> 
>  
> 
> All of the songs mentioned: Shameless, Six Feet Under the Stars, Walls, are All Time Low songs.
> 
> Sleepy: will proof read tomorrow.  
> Edit: for some reason, none of my edits are sticking? Weird and disliked.

**Stiles is laying in bed,** head propped up by his hands, Six Feet Under the Stars is playing on his iPod and Stiles’ backpack is loaded with Aconite. He hasn’t looked but he knows that’s what in it. His father is sitting at the dining table-

“This Derek kid is going to be no good, no good at all.”

It’s green bean casserole, mom’s favorite and she’s in the garage making bullets with apple pie and her famous burnt monkshood chip cookies.

“Will you pass the bullets?”

“Lead or silver?”

“Lead.”

“I wish you’d find someone good for you.”

“I wish you’d quit drinking so much.”

“We’re Stilinskis, son, we have each our own poison. We’ve chosen. Mine is the drink and, yours? Yours is doomed relationships.”

He’s back in bed and Six Feet Under the Stars is still playing. Derek rolls his hips, hands slowly unbuttoning his jeans as he rotates at the foot of Stiles’ bed.

“Tonight,” he says, “I’m going to fuck you over.”

Stiles can taste soil in his mouth and his ears are full of his own screams. Scott’s mom is shouting about lacerations, amputating, someone is going into shock, and there’s dirt under Stiles’ nails. Dirt and blood. Blood and dirt. He is pack, pack. There are flower petals in his mouth. He travels down the same hallway six times; Chris flickers beside him, a ghost of his future. He’s watching him lean back and look at the stars. He’s telling Stiles about Medusa and the villainization of priestesses. Stiles is watching Chris’ adam’s apple split, spill come and red and green and purple glitter.

He’s pressing the button on the morphine machine, wishing there wasn’t a safety catch. Chris has joined Derek in stripping at the foot of his bed. They’re down to open pants and nothing else. Shameless is playing and Chris shoves his tongue down Derek’s throat. They’re kissing, grinding together, hips synched up in a perfectly violent sex-act and Stiles is pushing the morphine button in the hopes that it will make the pain go away.

Derek grows dark and already bloodied claws and scratches down Chris’ chest. Stiles knows it’s his blood that stains Derek’s hands. Monkshood has mutated into a pervasive vine that grows over Stiles’ bedroom. Derek is pushing his cock inside of Stiles and Stiles is watching, wide eyed, as Derek palms Chris through his army fatigues. Chris chants his dead wife’s name as Derek drops to his knees and rubs his face against Chris’ cock.

“You can’t do this,” Derek says, turning violent violet eyes on Stiles.

Derek grunts and thrusts harder into Stiles, holding his right knee to his chest, fingers breaking into pre-damaged flesh. Stiles presses the button and morphined aconite rushes through his veins from the machine, dulling the pain. It’s going to take it all away. Chris kisses Stiles softly and says:

“I’m such a fool.”

His legs wrap around Stiles and every thrust of Derek into his ass pushes him further into Chris.

“You always come up with bad plans,” Scott says as the monkshood grows over his face, blooms with loose soil in his mouth.

“I love you,” Stiles says into Derek’s mouth.

“I wish you’d give up the drink,” his dad says, spears a piece of green bean, asks Stiles for another finger, just one more. Chris begs and Stiles grinds his hips against his ass. Every time he thrusts into him, Derek becomes smaller and smaller at Stiles’ back.

“I love you,” Stiles says as he hands his dad a glass of whiskey.

“I miss your mother,” his father says. Stiles pushes Chris’ knees against his chest and fucks into him a littler harder.

“She’d know what to do with you,” they say and turn their heads away. His dad swallows the aconite whiskey. Chris kisses Derek, twisting his body away from Stiles.

“I love you,” Stiles says, burying his face into Chris’ neck. He just keeps kissing Derek.

“You never could get it right,” his dad says and the casserole is broken. Derek rolls around in the dish.

Stiles says, “I love you. Chris. Chris,” into the dry mouth cavern of Scott’s, feeling flower petals under his tongue, soil against his teeth.

Derek says, “Victoria,” and comes inside of Stiles.

Stiles’ bedroom is the dining room is the Argent basement.

Derek weeps in the corner of Chris’ basement, cupping a lotus flower of monkshood to his belly. His blood slides over his hands, drips down onto the floor, turns black, and sprouts blooms of aconite. Chris is spread out on the metal table and Stiles is choking him.

“Ssshh,” he says.

“This will make everything better,” he says.

Chris’ mouth moves like a landed fish, eyes wide and dazed. He comes, arching off the table and shaking harder than he ever has before, passes out.

Stiles takes a bite of an Aconite apple he plucked off of the tree growing out of the ebony blood of Derek. He dreams of twelve short werewolf minors and the constant feel of dry apple in his throat, a holy wafer to remind him of the poison he now is, forever will be, always was.

He wakes to Jackson kissing him.

“I love you,” he says. Derek cries, digs his fingers farther into Stiles’ knee, tells him that if he’d been good, if he’d just only have been good, then none of this would have happened. Chris drools blood onto Stiles’ chest.

“I love you,” he says and kisses Chris until his lips are red as blood, “Chris,” until his heart is white as snow, “Chris,” until his skin is as black as the ebony of his window frame, “Chris,” in the orchard of Rowan he cannot escape, “Chris,” he rubs Sorbus aucuparia berries over Chris’ cheeks until it looks as if he’s blushing –bleeding, oh god, he’s bleeding everywhere, he’s going to die. Derek. Derek. Why. Derek. Save me. Save me. I am helpless. I am weak. Help. Why did you do this to me? —

“But I’m afraid,” Derek tells Chris as Chris grips his dick in one hand, poised at Derek’s asshole. They kiss, Chris cupping Derek’s face tenderly.

“Sing me to sleep,” Stiles asks, presses his hot mouth to Chris.

“I love you,” Stiles says.

“I’m afraid,” Stiles says.

“I’ll see you in my dreams,” Chris says.

“I miss you. I’m sorry.”

They say. They say. He was always a trouble child. They say.

He’s cold. Walls plays. Victoria stabs Chris in the gut; he looks at her with reverence in his eyes.

She says, “Shh, baby.” He nods, closes his eyes. Stiles twists the knife inside of him, feeling his guts make room for Stiles, he bleeds off the table and onto the floor for Stiles, for Victoria. Stiles can feel her hand on his lower back, can feel the monkshood Derek creep up his leg, slowly fouling him.

“It will be over soon,” Victoria Stiles says.

Victoria’s lips leave mauve lipstick on Stiles’ mouth and Chris is slowly purpling from their mouths on him.

 

Something jostled Stiles, half of his side going cold. He flails out his arm, hits flesh. Hands wrap around his, kiss his knuckles, places his hand on his chest. Stiles grunts. Someone kisses his shoulder.

“Chr’s?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Stiles feels around the bed until he feels Chris’ face, eyes remaining tightly shut, feels his way down Chris' face and neck until his fingers reach shoulder.

“Have to pee anyway.”

He tugs on him until Chris follows. He misses Chris’ mouth with his mouth and hits his nose. Close enough. Stiles pulls Chris to him, tucks him against him.

“I thought you had to pee.”

“Mmhmm.”

The morning light isn't strong enough to fight off the chill night had instilled. 

“Don’t pee on me,” Chris says, a playful lilt to his voice, fingers tracing patterns on Stiles' back.

Stiles groans, kisses Chris’ ear, rolls away.

“Why were you up anyway?”

Stiles bites his lip as he pulls the blanket off his legs. He can tell without looking that it’s swollen.

“You were having a nightmare.”

Stiles winces, turns his back to Chris, sets his feet on the floor, suddenly more embarassed in being there than afraid of the oncoming pain of walking.

“It wasn’t like normal,” Stiles says, bends over, runs his hands over his scalp. He feels Chris’ hand on his back. His wide palm dry and warm.

“What were you dreaming of?”

His hand slides down Stiles’ back, cups the top of his ass, kneads soothing fingers into the flesh there. Stiles shakes his head, flashes of his dream circling his brain. _Chris and Derek kissing, Stiles fucking Chris, Derek’s dick inside of him, his dad sitting at the dinning room table._

It doesn’t make a lot of sense.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Chris says, Stiles feels him move behind him, feels every stubbled kiss Chris leaves on his shoulders, the way Chris' chin digs into his shoulder over well-known and ever-present knots.

“It doesn’t make any sense now that I’m awake.”

Chris drapes his legs on either side of Stiles, wraps his arms around him, his fingers knead soothingly into Stiles’ chest. He can feel Chris’ chest against his back, his belly moving with every breath, his dick rests soft and warm against the top of Stiles’ ass. Chris kisses Stiles’ neck and he remembers choking him, the feel of his bristled neck under his hands, the colors his face had turned, how tight his body had gotten right before he passed out.

“What was I saying?”

Chris plants kisses along Stiles’ hairline, fingers running up and down Stiles' sides.

“Mostly my name.”

Stiles grunts, _Derek clawing up Chris’ chest, Chris’ head thrown back in the ecstasy of it._

“At first I thought it was one of your sex dreams.”

Stiles remembers Derek fucking him, Stiles choking Chris. He had made the same face he’d made yesterday morning when Stiles had kissed him to keep him from talking.

“It sorta was.”

Chris hums, rubs his stubble against Stiles’ neck and shoulder lightly, his fingers digging into Stiles' obliques confidently.

“There was a lot of sex and this casserole.”

“A casserole?”

“Yeah, I think Derek did a dance in it.”

Chris stiffens behind Stiles (and not in a fun way), his hands stop moving across Stiles' belly.

“I think you did a strip tease and then we were in the basement—no, first I was fucking you on a gurney? Or was it my bed? Derek was bleeding and we were in the basement and I had you on this table, choking you, and then you passed out and…”

Chris lifts his head up from where he was resting it on Stiles’ shoulder, removing his hands from Stiles entirely.

“Choking me?”

Stiles nods, Chris lowers his arms stiffly back around Stiles.

“You were... you—were on the table and I was on top of you and I had my hands around your neck.” Stiles breaks out into goose bumps. “Then I was leaning over you next to the table and your face was turning red and you weren’t fighting me. I think you tried to say something but then you were com—” Stiles stops, catching himself before finishing that sentence, Chris shifts away from him again. 

Stiles feels cold, the birds start to chirp outside, the cold of morning has seeped into his skin. He wants to be under the blankets again, wants to forget about his screwed up dreams and fight off morning for a little longer. Stiles twists his torso, hitching his left knee back up on the bed. Stiles takes a deep breathe, pushing away the feel of the dream as much as he can.

“It was—mmph,” Chris’ stubble rasps against Stiles’, his eyes are open, surprised by the force of the kiss. Chris’ face is flushed, his eyebrows drawn together, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. He looks pained. Stiles turns further, presses against Chris, cups his jaw and palms his pectoral, trying to kiss away that look. Chris just tightens his closed eyes and kisses harder. Stiles leans into Chris more, hisses, pain shooting up his leg. He turns back instinctively.

Really, it was only a matter of time before Stiles did this. It’d been four days since his last fall so he was obviously due.

Hitting his face on the nightstand was a bonus, though. There’s a disorienting moment where Stiles’ body becomes an orbital diagram of pain. Stiles groans, looking down at his own ridiculous body.

“Stiles?”

Chris sounds worried, Stiles listens to the sound of him moving on the bed. He feels stupid, laid out on the floor, head and leg throbbing, naked as all fuck. Stiles looks up at Chris, licks his lips, licks them again, props himself up on his right arm. Chris climbs off the bed and Stiles watches him move. The morning sun casts sleepy yellows on Chris’ lean body and lights up his body hair. He kneels next to Stiles, half a frown on his face.

“Are you alright?”

Stiles eyes slide down Chris’ body. His dick is still waving from his movements, half-chubbed. Stiles looks down at his feet, at how Chris’ toes spread out to keep him balanced and laughs.

“At least it wasn’t the stairs.”

Chris' half-frown becomes a full frown. He cups the side of Stiles’ head.

“You’re hurt.”

Stiles reaches up a hand, places it against the side of Chris’ neck. He smiles, slides his thumb back and forth, every few strokes his thumb brushes Chris’ earlobe. It feels cold. He doesn’t say that he’s always hurt; doesn’t want to see that sad look on Chris’ face that he always makes when Stiles reminds him how fucked up he is.

“I still need to pee,” he says instead.

“Come on, I’ll get you to there.”

He helps Stiles up, wraps an arm around him, slings Stiles’ right arm over his shoulders and holds it there. Every step is painful but Stiles knows that without Chris, without that firm hand holding his hip and the strong body he leans on that he would never be able to make as easy of a trip as it is with him. The birds outside get louder as the strength of the morning light increases.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon: actual action.
> 
> And I don't just mean Stiles getting laid. 
> 
> Mostly.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek meets Carson. Dread makes her first appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, was this chapter hard to write. Like I could fill two, three pages with all of the shit I crossed out as crap.

**Derek is sitting on the front porch,** peeling an orange when the beta walks by the second time. Boyd had scented him at noon when he and Scott were playing catch. Or so they called it catch. It looked to Derek as if they were just throwing a baseball at each other and laughing. It’s two now and Derek is taking possibly too much pleasure in tossing his orange peels into Argent’s pristine lawn. Derek bares his teeth at him, just his top row. Humans would say he was smiling. The beta tenses, looks over his shoulder, steps up onto the curb in front of the Argent place.

“I’m Carson,” he says. Then, as if it’s an after-thought, “Of the Virginia Pack, and I’ve come on behalf of my alpha to arrange a meeting between, between the Hale Pack and the Virginia Pack.”

The orange leaks onto his thumb. It’s cold and feels a little tingly when Derek sucks it off. He raises his eyebrows and tucks his chin in a little.

“Virginia? As in Company pack?”

Carson shakes his head, looks over his shoulder, hands tense and in his pockets. A breeze picks up and sends Carson’s scent into Derek’s face. He smells like cats and a little bit like blood, red clay and cactus.

“Victory, Virginia. Of Arizona.”

Derek bites into his orange, enjoying the way the juices sluice into his mouth. This is his favorite part of meeting other werewolves: they pick up on posturing much better than humans.

“What’s your business in Hale Territory?”

Derek frowns, tucks his chin in, licks orange off his fingers. Carson is standing with his toes just on the sidewalk outside of the Argent lawn. His body is angled sideways, eyes fixed on a spot halfway between Derek and him. Definitely born but probably one of the few who are in his pack.

“We’re looking for a new territory.”

“And you thought you’d take mine?”

Derek takes another bite of his orange; juice squirts out with a small squealing noise.

“Our objective is peace. We seek peace.”

Derek nods, chewing on his bite of orange. He knows what that means. The Hale Pack has been in Beacon Hills since before the town had had a name and many rogues, packs, omegas, alphas, had come to Hale Territory seeking refuge.

“Are you your pack’s mediator?”

Carson nods, looks over his shoulder, removes his hand from his pocket, puts them back in, twitches his fingers around whatever is in that windbreaker. Carson nods again, smiles with his teeth covered.

“We… our pack is young. Even younger than you, Alpha. We… my alpha is younger than me.”

Carson looks down the road, purses his lips.

“My whole pack is younger than me.”

Derek gives a brief grunt, nods his head. He understands very well what that feels like. Carson takes a deep breath, briefly, very briefly, meets Derek’s eyes. A car drives by, a woman singing along with the radio inside it.

“We’re looking for peace,” Carson says again, “Will you allow us to find it here?”

How could Derek deny that? Deny someone else the chance for peace? Derek pops the rest of his orange into his mouth and chews slowly. He can’t promise anything yet. It would be rash and unwise. He wants to but he can already hear Isaac yelling at him for it. Carson’s hands rest on his thighs now, head slightly bowed. He must be from one of those traditional families. His black hair is cut short but the way he hunches his shoulders, twitches his head, tell Derek that it used to be longer. His teeth ache suddenly.  He hasn’t even met his alpha and he kind of wants to hate him anyway.

“What’s your blood name?”

Carson shakes his head, looks over his shoulder, fidgets with whatever is in his pocket.

“It’s been lost.”

“You’re… from around here, aren’t you?”

A shiver runs through Carson, his eyes flashing: one yellow, one orange-red.

“Was. Now I’m werewolf.”

Derek’s stomach roils and he wishes he hadn’t had that orange. He’s heard of alphas who did that, who forced it onto others but he never thought he’d meet one, never thought that enough of them existed for him to ever meet one.

“What’s your business with the Argents?”

Carson looks over his shoulder, rubs his hand in his pocket.

“That’s not my place. My alpha has… personal business with them, separate from Hale Pack.”

Derek stands, shoulders facing Carson, hands slightly curled at his sides.

“Argent business is Hale business. This is my territory. Everything in it is mine. I’ll be at the Hale House after eight.”

Carson nods, licks his lips, looks over his shoulder, nods again.

“My alpha, my alpha said that there was history between the two of you. History that would make trust difficult. I, it’s not my place to say but I hope that you don’t deny us because of it.”

Derek stares. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He struggles for a second, hands grasping uselessly at his sides.

“We’ll deal with what comes,” is the best he’s got. Carson nods, pulls something out of his pocket, sets it on the edge of the lawn. He turns and walks away as quickly as he can in the direction he’d been looking the entire conversation.

Derek listens to him, eyes fixed on the little thing that’s been left on the lawn as a gesture. He can hear kid’s creaming two houses down, someone is listening to the news across the street.

The sun beats down on Derek’s arms, warming the slight chill he’s gotten. Isaac leans around the corner, looks down the road the way Carson had gone, looks at Derek. Who just keeps looking at the small thing on the lawn. Its heart beats so fast. Isaac walks quickly across the driveway, shoulders slumped, head shifting back and forth as he goes. He stoops over and gently, slowly, picks it up with this small, pained sound he probably doesn’t want Derek to hear.

“Rick…”

He turns, cradling it in his hands. Derek can hear the grass bend and the soft crunch of soil under Isaac’s feet as he walks quickly over to Derek. His heartbeat flutters, his breathing comes out slightly stunted. Isaac holds the tiny grubby thing out to Derek, a small whine escaping his mouth. His fingers brush Derek’s shirt as he shuffles closer. It mewls piteously.

“I think they broke her leg,” Isaac says softly, as if even a word said too strong will hurt it more. His thumb runs over it. Derek nods, a tightness in his stomach that leaves him feeling uneasy as he looks at the matted fur on her right hind leg. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the next chapter written but I haven't typed it up cause I'm lazy. You probably won't hear from me until like Thursday night or Friday. Maybe Saturday.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. I do that. Here's another one.
> 
> I must warn now that I grew up with firearms my whole life. I know more than the average person about them but less than the average enthusiast and I don't think they're cool or sexy or anything like that but I enjoy writing realistically about them. As well as I can, anyway. My dad stole my guns when he left me mum so it's been a few years since I've handled them. I may be rusty. Be sure to yell at me if I got/get anything wrong.

**It’s funny how after all these years,** Stiles still expects it all to start with fanfare, half a dead body, kidnapping, paralyzed people, and crushed bodies. Instead it’s this: sitting in Chris’ bed, wearing boxers and a T-shirt, cuddling a calico kitten to his stomach while it sleeps off the kitty morphine and soggy kitten food that Scott had given her earlier. Meanwhile his ex is trying to glare holes through him and his current… thing as if they were in the process of drowning his puppy and laughing at him while his… thing… lover… Chris cleans Stiles' gun.

That's not a euphamism. Right now, anyway.

“What even does a kitten mean in werewolf-speak,” Stiles asks, running the pad of his thumb over the kitten’s front paw, he doesn’t have to look up to know Derek’s glare has intensified.

Chris is studiously silent beside him, a small frown marring his face. As he slides his oil rag over some small part in his hand that Stiles can’t see. It’s somehow soothing to Stiles, the smell of gun oil, Chris’ familiar movements, the warmth of blankets, and the quiet of the room. He’s spent a lot of weekends laid up in bed with Chris quietly sitting somewhere in the room, idly doing this or that.

“Why would they break her leg? That just seems needlessly cruel.”

“They’re asking the Hale Pack to take care of them,” Chris says, as he presses the eject lever and pulls the magazine out of the Kel Tec .380 he got Stiles for his birthday. Stiles is a little hypnotized by Chris’ smooth movements. His mouth may get a little wet when Chris pulls back the slide to make sure there are no bullets chambered. Stiles hears Derek shift on his feet, standing by the wall near the door. Stiles flicks his eyes up and, yep, he’s being glared at. Stiles rubs his index finger under the kitten’s chin and tries not to watch Chris pull the slide off the grip. It takes more willpower than Stiles would like to admit.

The kitten mewls in his hands and Stiles looks back down at her. He rubs his index finger under her chin.

“Good morning, Dread. Did you have a good nap?”

The kitten mewls again; it’s tiny paw coming up to bat at Stiles’ pinky.

“It’s a girl,” Derek says. Stiles shrugs.

“Dread’s a very nice name. Huh, Dread?” You like it don’t you?”

The kitten stretches her front paws, licks her nose, rolls over, and almost falls off of Stiles’ stomach. He catches her, laughing, and gently sets her higher on his chest. Her little hind leg is in a cast and Stiles knows he’s beyond hope. It’s not his fault she’s so cute. She purrs, yawns, sticks her sharp little claws into Stiles’ chest and closes her eyes. Yeah, he’s doomed. This kitten is going to be the happiest kitten ever. He’s pretty sure the kitty drugs that Scott gave her are already making her pretty happy but whatever, he’s sure he can make her life cush.

“Werewolves are so weird,” Stiles says. Chris snorts beside him, attaches a jag to the cleaning rod, uses it to shove a clean cloth swatch through the barrel.

“So they want safe harbor. Is that why you’re sending me?”

Derek nods, chews on his tongue.

“I’ll be there and so will Isaac.”

Stiles nods absently, looks over at Chris, he has a small wrinkle between his eyebrows as he concentrates on scrubbing the inside of the slide with a toothbrush.

“Why Isaac and not Erica?”

Derek looks out of the window, jaw twitching. He’s definitely chewing on his tongue. Stiles sighs, figures Derek wouldn’t answer.

“Erica is your second. Why is she not coming?”

“She’ll be here in case they’re lying and come after Mister Argent while Derek’s away,” Danny says, hopping into the room with a grin. He passes by Derek, runs his hand over his arm and heads towards Stiles. The room becomes even more infused with the scent of gun oil. Danny hops onto the bed, somehow manages to crawl between Chris and Stiles without jostling either of them. Danny props himself up next to Stiles, grins, scratches Dread behind the ears.

“Have you named her?”

“She’s Dread.”

Danny looks skeptical, frowning with his eyebrows raised.

“Like the hair?”

Danny wrinkles his nose and pets Dread from head to tail.

“Like the pirate,” Chris says, wipes the gun with a dry clothe, eyes looking it over for missed spots.

“We’re all supposed to stay here in case they come after Mister Argent while you’re away except me. I get to be your lapdog for the evening.”

Behind Danny, Stiles can see Chris’ frown get a little heavier as he puts the gun back together with practiced moves. He’s silent but Stiles can tell he’s unhappy about what’s been decided. Stiles wouldn’t be happy either. Danny lays his head on Stiles’ shoulder, nuzzles into the material, and lays his hand over Dread. Chris sets Stiles’ gun on the bed, starts putting away the cleaning materials into the special (and expensive) kit he bought to go along with Stiles’ gun.

“Hey!”

Stiles picks up the gun, checks that the safety is on automatically. “Do you want to ruin the sheets,” Stiles asks with a frown in Chris’ direction, rests the gun against his bare thigh. Chris has the oil in his hand, some metal brushing in the other. He’s looking at Stiles with a quirked mouth and raised eyebrows. There’s a sparkle in his half-lidded eyes. Stiles knows that look, he knows it very well.

“Yes,” Chris says, a small smirk taking over the corners of his mouth. Something knocks in Stiles’ stomach. He can just barely see Derek out of the corner of his eye. Danny is some distant warmth against his side. Stiles frowns, trying not to smile at Chris’ mischievous face.  

“No, bad hunter. No killing for you.”

Chris’ eyebrows twitch, turning up in the middle, the ends dragging down, his eyes squints, watering a little, the corners of his mouth turning down and _holy werewolf balls,_ Stiles feels like he is literally kicking a puppy. Never mind the not small at all arsenal he knows is stashed in the house, never mind that at all.

“Put that away! Are you trying to kill me?”

Chris grins, ducks his head back over the cleaning kit box, tucks the unused cloth swatches away. Derek shifts in his corner again, feet dragging on the wood floor.

“Oh my god, I feel violated. That was gross. You two are gross. Scott is right. You two are terrible.”

Stiles bites his lip to keep from smiling, looks down at the gun in his hand to make sure he isn’t pointing it at anything important, checks the safety again, most definitely doesn’t look over to see the small smile on Chris’ face grow just a little bit bigger.

“ANYWAY, what time are we leaving?”

“Six forty-five.”

Stiles can hear Isaac, Erica, Scott, and Boyd yelling in the backyard. Stiles looks up at Derek, who is still glaring. Except. He’s looking between Stiles and Chris, like he can’t decide whom to glare at more. Danny buries his face against Stiles’ shoulder, suddenly tense. Stiles doesn’t have to look over at Chris to see his shoulders stiffen but he does it anyway. The façade of normalcy dissipates, is lost completely.

Chris leans over and pulls the .380 out of Stiles’ hand carefully. He zips it in its case and sets it on top of the cleaning kit. Stiles thinks he’s just trying to find something to do with his hands now that he’s finished his self-assigned task.

Stiles would have to be dead not to notice the tension in the room. He runs his fingers through Danny’s hair; no longer capable of pretending his nerves aren’t shot to shit. He kind of wishes that everybody would leave the room. That he and Chris could be alone for just a little bit. He wants to bury his nose in Chris’ hair and feel his arms wrap around him. He thinks that might make him feel better. Maybe. Probably not. He can pretend, can’t he?

Alright, it would totally make him feel better to get a hug from Chris. Maybe even a kiss and an “It’s going to be OK.” He could use that right now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gun that Stiles is talking about is the Kel Tec P-3AT 380 ACP. It's a small gun, well-designed for conceal and carry because it's a hamerless design so it won't snag on your pocket or whatever. It looks like this http://www.budsgunshop.com/catalog/images/15230.jpg  
> It's, uh... If I remember correctly, about five? inches long and less than ten ounces? It's not recommended as a primary firearm but the way I see it is it's basically just for if shit goes south. Very south.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHRASES  
> gird ( up) one's loins prepare and strengthen oneself for what is to come.  
> PHRASAL VERBS  
> gird oneself for prepare oneself for (dangerous or difficult future actions).
> 
>  
> 
> //girds self.

**“So are you going to keep her?”** Scott’s voice is tiny through Stiles’ phone. Derek is sitting on the stairs, hands fisted together. He doesn’t have to look to know that Stiles is still laying on the one piece of furniture in the house, a couch, with his legs in Danny’s lap, one arm thrown up above his head but he looks anyway.

“I don’t know. Why has everyone decided she’s mine? Maybe someone else wants her.”

Isaac is curled up under the front window, reading something on Derek’s iPad. Danny massages Stiles’ thighs and Derek wants to punch his face in. He wonders how Argent puts up with the touching. Derek had forgotten about all the touching Stiles does.

“Awww, you gotta keep her. Allison has always wanted a little sister.”

Some muscle in Derek’s face twitches at that.

“No, Scott.”

“I do wonder… are you and Mister Argent ready for this level of commitment?”

“Scott, no.”

“Speaking of: when is he going to make an honest man out of you?”

“Please, Scott. No.”

“What will the neighbors think?”

“This is terrible. Your sense of humor sucks.”

“Your father is not going to be happy with you having a baby daddy at nineteen.”

“You sense of humor needs to be taken out to pasture and shot,” Stiles groans. Derek is there with him. Scott laughs.

“I’m hanging up on you because you’re a terrible friend and you should feel bad.”

Scott’s laughs more, shouts, “I won’t baby sit for free!”

Stiles hangs up on him. Derek can hear a squirrel rooting around on a tree branch outside of the clearing for the house.

“You should keep her,” Danny says, “Ow! What’d I do?”

Stiles grumbles and sets his cane back down. Derek hears a car on the driveway.

“They’re here,” he says and, like magic, they all stop.

Isaac closes the iPad with a snap, sets it down next to him. Danny helps Stiles sit up, drags the folding chairs they brought with them in front of the couch. Derek watches him have an internal crisis before choosing to sit back down next to Stiles.

Derek stands, paces to the door, stands there flexing his hands. He can hear Stiles’ heart, his breathing, the gurgle of Danny’s stomach, Isaac’s breathing, the crunch of feet on earth outside. They say nothing, their hearts beat evenly. He can’t smell them in here, can’t identify them very well. Carson said he knew the Alpha, that he had history with him. What if the Alpha _has_ come to take his territory, destroy his pack? He can smell oak dust, finish, the hundreds of little scents left by the construction workers. He hears the slide of legs on the floor, quiet steps towards him, Isaac’s hand on his shoulder, sliding around, he pulls Derek back against his chest and nuzzles behind his ear. Derek can smell mostly Isaac, hear his heartbeat clearest, feel his warmth against him. He relaxes. Everything will be fine. They’ll get through this.

He waits until they’re climbing the steps before motioning Isaac to get the door.

Derek tries not to hold his breath, tries to keep his hear even. What he sees confuses him. Derek frowns, Isaac doesn’t recognize her at first, Stiles doesn’t even move – Derek’s not even sure he’s breathing- Danny is the one who breaks the silence.

“You’re alive.”

It was a mistake to bring Stiles, he thinks for one clear moment. He’s covered in his scent and spit and come. He smells like his soaps and his fucking gun oil and even a little bit like his BO. She smiles at Derek, head tilted, teeth covered, that edge of predator she’s always had before now intensified. Derek couldn’t calculate how fucked they were.

Carson stands to her left and slightly behind, a younger man, light skinned and fair-haired, rubs his boots on the welcome mat.

Danny hasn’t moved. Derek is still a little worried that Stiles isn’t breathing, Isaac tenses, slumps into himself, grips the doorknob a little harder.

“Misses Argent,” Stiles says, Derek starts, looks over to Stiles, he smiles, tilts his head friendly-like towards her. “It’s been a long time.”

Victoria Argent turns her smile on Stiles.

“Please, Mister…”

“Stiles, It’s Stiles.”

“Call me Victoria.”

Derek has had dreams like this. He usually ends up hog-tied to half a dozen batteries before the end.

“I’m sorry for our rudeness. We just, you know, thought you were dead. I’d greet you but,” Stiles smiles, stamps his cane on the ground, “I’m afraid the last few years have been less kind on me than on you.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” she says, flicks her hand. Carson walks behind her, over to Stiles. The second man stays by the door. They don’t shake hands or touch, Carson nods his head, a tight smile on his face, he takes the seat across from Stiles. Derek jerks his head, eyes fixed on Victoria Argent. Isaac’s heat speeds up, settles, he shuts the door, walks into the living room, makes sure to pass behind Derek, run his fingers across Derek’s back as he passes. Derek and Victoria move at the same time stop, look at each other. She smiles, Derek tries not to frown any harder.

“I hope you don’t mind that we’ll be recording this, for the record. We can give you a copy of it if you want. You know, in case of disputes or the like.”

Derek walks the rest of the way into the living room, stands behind the couch, apart from Stiles and Danny, situates himself so he can see Victoria’s pack and his (Stiles).

“Yes, I’d like that.”

“Well, let’s get down to business,” Stiles says, brings his hands together, looks at Derek, who nods, then looks at Isaac who gives him a reassuring smile and presses record on the iPad. Derek just can’t believe this is happening.

Chris Argent’s wife, Allison’s mom, a werewolf he made, alive. Alive and thriving. With a pack of her own.

“I just want to be with my family again,” she says, cutting off the start of whatever Carson was saying. Stiles flinches, her eyes are hard on him. She must know. She must smell Argent on him. She must know what he’s been doing with her husband. She must be doing this, saying these things, on purpose. To hurt Stiles.

Derek clenches his hands, bites the tip of his tongue, checks on Stiles’ heart rate again. His heart is even, breathing steady, he’s not shaking or blanched or anything. How can this not be affecting him? His eyes slide to Isaac, he shakes his head minutely, slightly shrugs his mouth, eyes fixed on Derek. He’s right. Derek can’t end this now, kick them out. She has a legitimate claim to the area: a child and a spouse that she’s been long-separated from. Derek can’t deny her family.

 

It takes an hour for them to make a tentative agreement and Derek doesn’t know what’s even being said the entire time, doesn’t know what his pack has agreed to, what demands she’s made on them, all he knows is that Stiles’ heartbeat never changed, his breathing remained steady, his BO never increased and his voice stayed measured.

Chris Argent must mean less to Stiles than Derek thought.

It’s not until they pull onto Outer Road that Derek figures out that the business portion of the evening is not finished.

Stiles takes out his phone, dials, waits. Danny is driving, Derek now sitting directly behind Stiles, Isaac shoots him periodic looks.

“That was pretty fast.”

“It’s not over. We’re coming to you for one more bit. Has to do with the Argents.”

“The Virginia Pack is coming?”

“Yeah,”

“Wow, this must be big.”

Stiles laughs, presses his head against the passenger window.

“You could say that. This is, this is, big. Huge. Real big. Permanently altered, big.”

“We’re not in danger, are we?”

Scott’s voice changes slightly, as if he isn’t facing the phone anymore.

“No. Not physically,” Stiles says, his voice drops, loses what little cheer it had, “Tell, tell Allison that I love her, OK? Tell her I’ll always be there for her if she needs me.”

“Stiles? What—”

“We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Stiles hands up, hands clenching around his phone. Danny shifts his eyes between the road and Stiles, reaches out, lays a hand on Stiles’ knee. Stiles gives him a tied smile, lays his hand briefly on Danny’s, stares out the window.

 

“MOM!” Allison’s chair clatters to the floor, her arms wrap tight around the woman that leads the group into a house she already knows, technically owns.

Victoria says, “Allison,” she says, “my baby girl.”

Allison is crying, her face pressed into her mother’s blazer. Argent sits at the far end of the dining room table with a blank look, hands resting on the table, unmoving. He watches his daughter and wife. Scott’s heart is beating madly, looking between Allison, her mom, Argent, Stiles, and back again. Isaac sits down next to him, places the iPad on the table near Argent. Boyd and Erica stand silent in another part of the house. Derek can hear them whispering to each other.

Danny stands behind Stiles, his hand rests on Stiles’ lower back and Derek wants to punch him until his own teeth hurt in sympathy. He hears someone swallow, shuffle farther into the room. Carson’s face is blanched, eyes water. Gary, the other beta, stands perfectly still behind Carson.

Allison pulls away from her mom slowly, her face wet, hair a mess.

“You left me,” she says.

“Shh,” Victoria responds, fixing Allison’s hair, “I’m here now.”

Everyone else is quiet, unmoving. Derek feels like an intruder, feels angry and grief-stricken all over again.

“Chris,” Victoria says, her voice closer to the business tones of earlier. He looks up at her, a peculiar face Derek can’t read on it.

“We have a lot to discuss.”

Argent nods, says, “Yes, we do.”

“But not tonight,” Victoria says, cupping Allison’s tear stained and smiling face.

“Tonight I want to spend with my daughter.”

Argent nods again, looks at Stiles, a queasy look crosses his face, nods again.

“You, you know how to reach me,” he says, swallows, looks down at his hands.

Victoria smiles, lets go of Allison, walks around the table and fallen chair to Argent. She raises her hand, Argent’s heart rate skyrockets, his body tenses. Derek looks to Stiles. His mouth is set firm, a pinched look to his eyes, leaning heavily on his cane. Derek looks away, feeling something sharp in his chest. Argent is leaning his forehead into Victoria’s hand. He looks blank to Derek, afraid to feel.

“Thank you, Chris,” she says, Argent flinches. “I know this was hard for you.”

He shakes his head, pulls away.

“I did what you wanted me to. I’ve always done what you’ve asked.”

She lets her hand drop, stares at him. There’s a lot in this short interaction that Derek is apparently missing.

“Yes,” she says, “you have.”

She turns away, holds out her arm. Allison walks to her, grasps her arm almost desperately. They lead Carson and Gary out of the house.

Derek stands at some point between Stiles and Argent, feels the very definition of a sore thumb.

“I’m… gonna… go talk to Erica,” Isaac says, stands, rights the turned chair, leaves. Derek follows because he can’t think of anything else to do and knows he shouldn’t be in the same room as those two right now.

Derek can hear Scott, talking on the phone in Allison’s room, telling Lydia what has happened tonight. He hears a phone vibrate, Danny’s feet taking him into a different room. Danny’s voice says, “hello,” Jackson’s, “What the hell happened?” Danny’s feet fidgets, the sound of the backdoor opening, shutting.

Argent says, “Stiles, I—”

“Did you know?”

“I was—”

“Did you know?”

Silence briefly, the cicadas outside get louder.

“Yes.”

“I’ll get my stuff tomorrow.”

Derek hears Stiles’ labored steps, the thunk of his cane as he walks the distance towards the front door. He’s staring at the spot he’d stood in when Stiles had thrown the bowl of fruit at him.

“Please,” Argent says, even to Derek, his voice sounds rough, scared. “We—I — will you talk to me?” There’s a thread of something desperate in his voice, the sound of footsteps.

Isaac stands in front of Derek, a frown on his face. He knows Derek is listening in.

“No.”

It’s said quietly, with a conviction that’s startling from Stiles.

Derek winces, Stiles opens the front door, closes it behind him. He may have wanted them broken up, may have wished for it, but he can’t help but feel a little sorry for Chris. He hears the thunk of something against wood, a pained grunt, a wrecked voice pleading at someone who isn’t listening.

The sounds of ragged breathing, wet hiccoughs, the infrequent sounds of something, something possibly made of bone, possibly Chris’ skull, hitting the door echo through the silent house.

Derek can hear them all breathing. Isaac, Erica, Scott, Danny, himself, but no one moves, no one makes a noise. He thinks they’re all painfully aware that they can hear something excruciatingly private.

He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, feels like he should leave but afraid to move and break the perceived solitude their lack of action has given this creature of grief.

 

“Please,” it says, “Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, at last, my story can truly begin.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is dealing the way he's learned how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I'd break your heart. I didn't tell you I'd stop.

**The earth is moving more than the usual but it’s OK, that’s why he’s on the floor.**

“Stiles?”

He feels a little bit like throwing up but he’s felt that way since before he got to here.

“Why are you on the floor? Did you fall?”

Stiles laughs. Oh boy, did he fall.

“Jesus, did you drink the whole bar?”

His dad is in front of him, waving opposite to the way the Earth is going. The handle to the doors on his dad’s wet bar digs into his shoulder and he doesn’t care. Stiles raises a bottle of, of something, he doesn’t know, stopped caring before he opened the front door. That’s a lie. He still cares. Takes a gulp of the liquid. Bitter, singes the inside of his mouth. He’s been raised to think it feels good, tastes good. To him, it does. Others would say the burn is unpleasant. Stiles has never been one to say anything that proves he’s living is unpleasant.

“What happened?”

His dad checks Stiles over for injury, gets out a pen light, shines it into Stiles’ eyes.

“I thought y’might like to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what? Stiles,” his dad says, raises a hand, touches Stiles’ forehead. There’s a pinch of pain where his fingers touch but that’s OK, nothing to the burning of his heart with his next swig.

“What happened to you,” he says, voice soft, grave and gentle with concern. Stiles smiles at him, bitter as the drink on his tongue, turning his stomach.

“Congratulations, you got what you wanted. You were right. I was, was, as always, wrong, and, and stupid.”

He frowns, tries to raise the bottle again but it’s not in his hand anymore. Stiles looks down, flexes his empty fingers. It’s out of his hands. It’s funny how he loses grasp on so much.

“You were right and I was right and he was very right and everybody was right… it’s over.”

Stiles looks up at his dad. His chest hurts again, still. It’s hard to tell if it’s stopped at all since it began. He feels as if the ground has been pulled out from under his feet and replaced by a tilt-a-whirl. It’s OK, though, it’s not like Stiles wasn’t already crippled.

“He… I ended it. It. Whatever ‘it’ was. Ubiquitous. It’s done. Finished. Dead. We’ve broken… so, yeah. Time to celebrate.”

He lifts his head again, gives his dad a smile. His dad’s face is wrinkled, that red-tan that grampa has showing more with age, mouth drooped in the corners, face aged from worry and grief. Stress on the cracks.

Stiles takes after his mom. Dark hair, thin and tall, full lips, a different kind of white than his dead. Dad. His dad. His clear eyes are pale, that reflective and changeable blue that makes him seem so honest, earnest. Because he is. Not like Stiles. Full of shit. Liar. Piece of crap. So filthy on the inside that his eyes are shit-brown.

“Did he hurt you?” Voice gentle, full of concern, wary. He always worries for Stiles. After Stiles. Patient. Kind. Grieving widower raising his fuck up of a son with all the love and understanding that Stiles gets nowhere else. Even he didn’t understand, didn’t approve, support Stiles in this one thing. Harris was right. Stiles is a failure, stupid fuck up loser. He’d have to change everything about himself to have someone love him. Cripple. Failure. Stupid. Everyone looks at him and thinks why-can’t-he-just-stay-away-from-the-rest-of-us? Freak. What a freak.

“Come on. Why aren’t you celebrating,” Stiles says, chin drooping onto his chest.

“You got what you wanted he’s no longer… no longer… shouldn’t you be happy?”

Stiles laughs, his dad frowns harder. Doesn’t know why. Why to any of this. Laughs at himself. He’s laughable. He thought… but that couldn’t be. Could never be. He wouldn’t deserve that anyway.

Arms pull at his, hefting him to his feet. His dad smells like barbasol and something a little bitter, pungent, like old coffee and sweat and bourbon and old papers and dad.

“Stupid. So stupid. Fucking stupid. To think that I could be happy that… I… he… made me so happy. I was _happy_ that was my mistake. St—st—Stiles Stilinski isn’t allowed to be happy. But I was so this, this is my punishment.”

There are stairs under his feet and soft, familiar hands on his side, his arm, and his dad’s breath smells like coffee and police cruiser.

“He made me happy. So it had to be fake, a lie. I can’t have an honest life, something good in this suck-fest of, of werewolves and death and mud and not-death and, and _wives._ SO it had to be a lie. Cause that’s what would hurt the most.”

Stiles stumbles, falls, hits the wall. His dad cusses, says Stiles’ name, grabs his shirt, pulls him upright, and kneels in front of Stiles again. His face is a painful mosaic of worry and chronic sadness.

“He made me happy, dad. Happier than I’ve been since, since mom got sick,” Stiles says, clutches the front of his dad’s uniform shirt, voice thin, reedy like a child who’s witnessed their first injustice of the world and doesn’t understand _why._

His dad’s lips compress, a sigh forced out of his nose. He hauls Stiles to his feet, pulls him down the hall.

“And you, you mister sherrrrriff, upstanding citizen, concerned parent, had to piss on it. Had to make me feel ashamed of it. Guilty that I was happy… Guilty that I could feel at peace with her no longer here. Ashamed that he made, made it easier, almost bearable. I was happy and that’s not allowed.”

Stiles sits on his bed, half slumped over, tilting sideways. Feels weak, limp.

“I was stupid. To think that I, that I could have felt… that I would be—but that’s OK, though, right?”

Stiles dad’s head is bent, his hands working to get Stiles’ boots off.

“It’s OK because there’s plenty of wonderful men in the sea. There’ll be someone else who can make it all seem bearable. Who won’t care that I’m a cripple freak of a burden. Someone who will make me feel like I can make it through the day. Someone who will look adorable while talking about assault rifles and read weird books from the library that smell and who drools on my chest when he sleeps. Someone…”

His dad pushes on his shoulders, pulls and presses until Stiles is lying on his side, a wall of pillows at his back.

“Stupid. So stupid. To think… Such a fool. Why did it have to be her? Why, out of everyone who’s died in Beacon Hills, did it have to be hers that was a fake? Why didn’t I listen to him? Or me? Or you? Why did I have to think… hubris.”

Stiles laughs, his dad settles a blanket over him.

“Hubris of me to think I could have one thing unspoiled by lies and, and deception.”

Stiles whips his arm out, grasps his dad’s arm as he’s pulling away.

“ _His wife._ He lied to me.”

He fixes his eyes on his dad’s.

“Everyone I trust… He still has _a wife_ and I was just… just some _ass_ on the side.”

His dad frees his arm gently, tucks Stiles back under the blanket.

“Lies and deceit. I _hate_ werewolves.”

The room moves and Stiles feels seasick to his very core. 


	24. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting at the Argent House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just spent, like, two fucking hours trying to figure out how to free my blanket from the harness... bondage... thing the store sold it in. Wow, do I sure feel smart. Plus I just found out that the phone of the girl I've been hopelessly in love with since tenth grade is broken. Again. I don't know what she does but her phone never fucking works. It's so unfair.  
> Anyway, I'm blaming any shit in this chapter on the frustration I feel at those two events. So I'm taking it out on you peeps. Yup. You're welcome.  
> I'm sure there was more important stuff I meant to say but I've forgotten it now.

**Derek wants to take back every** guilty feeling he ever had about inadvertently killing Victoria Argent. Ok, most of them. He still feels bad for making Allison grieve for her mom. Not that she had to, apparently.

“Absolutely not.”

“If you want to relocate your whole pack here then you have to give us a complete roster. Otherwise we’ll spend the next however long playing is-it-is-it-not with strange werewolves.”

“I’ll give you the names of the werewolves but I hardly think it’s necessary for you to know everyone.”

Stiles sighs, head tilted sideways, looks at Victoria, his face clearly telegraphs his feelings. Derek stays as still as possible, hands on the table like two useless hams. Carson chuffs, runs a hand through his stunted hair.

“Is that really what you’re going with,” Stiles asks, sounds a little amused. Derek breathes through his mouth as quietly as he can. Carson and Victoria might not be able to tell how much more acrid and pungent Stiles’ scent has been but Derek can and it’s doing nothing for his calm demeanor. Sort of calm demeanor. Derek can hear Chris Argent hovering in the den nearby, catches him peeking into the room.

Derek hates him. Hates the way his and Stiles’ hearts had sped up when they’d seen each other like twin pulses on opposite sides of the room, hates the way Argent had seemed to sway in spot closer to Stiles like the boy had a gravity field he could not escape. He hates all Argents. (Allison doesn’t count because as far as he’s concerned, she’s a McCall.)

“People who aren’t werewolves but spend the majority of their time around them smell different, act different, must be treated different,” Stiles massages his temple, leans on his elbow.

“I know this. You know this. It’s pretty common knowledge.”

Derek can hear Argent moving closer to the door, Victoria’s even breathing, Carson’s agitation.

“Humans cannot be treated the same as werewolves.”

Stiles’ hand slaps down on the table.

“Why not?”

Carson’s mouth opens, closes, frowns. Victoria lays her hand on his arm, squeezes. Derek looks away from the two of them; watches Chris Argent enter the room. His eyes are trying to stay fixed ahead but they keep sliding to the tableau at his table.

“Chris,” Victoria says and, if possible, everyone at the table gets even more still. Argent freezes mid-step, turns his eyes to her, licks his lip, winces just slightly. Derek would smirk if he weren’t too busy pretending to be a were-chameleon in the hopes of blending in to the chair he’s sitting in. Despite what Erica and Boyd say, he actually does have a survival instinct. He does feel a little petty happiness, though: someone clocked Argent in the mouth. Derek kind of hopes it was Stiles. His lip is ridiculously swollen like he is trying to smuggle a gumball between his lip and teeth.

“Are you going to the kitchen,” she asks. Stiles is silent, looking down at the table, pulling in bigger breathes than normal. Derek wants to punch every Argent he sees right now.

“Yes.”

“Would you get me something to drink?”

Derek keeps looking between the Argents and Stiles. He feels a little like a typewriter with how his head is moving.

“Sure. Can I get anyone else anything?”

Argent looks around the table, a casual look to his face. Stiles takes in an unusually long breath, Carson says, “No, thank you,” Derek shakes his head, and Stiles says, “Yeah,” leans back against his seat, head tilted back.

“Could you get me a glass of water,” he says, heart rate increasing along with Argent’s, “Mister Argent? No ice, please. I don’t like it cold.”

Argent is breathing in circular breaths: in the nose, out the mouth, in the nose, out the mouth, and Stiles seems suddenly unable to sit still.

“Whatever you want,” Argent says, voice so even he sounds almost dead to Derek. He walks out of the room. Derek hears glasses shuffle in the other room, the tap turn on; he’s looking at Stiles because he… he really cannot believe that Stiles just did that.

Argent walks back in, the room exactly as he left it, sets down the two glasses on the table, his jaw twitching. He walks back out of the room with a slower tread than he entered it with; his breathing slightly faster than Derek knows is normal.

All Derek can think is _holy fuck_ on repeat. Over and over again. Even by Derek’s admittedly low standards of humane behavior that was pretty brutal. What did Argent do to Stiles to make him act so cruelly towards him? It had to have been more than what Derek saw. There had to be more to it. Derek had never seen Stiles treat anyone like this. Anyone but him, anyway.

“Well! I’m glad that’s settled. You have until Friday to give me a finalized roster of all of the pack you’re bringing in to town.”

Carson stands, nods, looks to Victoria as she stands as well. She smiles and nods, says, “By Friday.”

Stiles smiles wanly, presses stop the stop recording button on Derek’s iPad.

“It was good doing business with you. Victoria. Carson. Happy Tuesday.”

They nod; gather their things, turn, and leave.

Derek and Stiles sit silent at the table, watching them go. Derek can hear Argent taking gulps from the water bottle he grabbed for himself in the den. Stiles takes a sudden and deep breath, lurching into action. He closes the iPad. Derek winces, it’s louder than he expected.

“Well, that was productive,” Stiles says, gulps down the rest of his water.

“Not really.”

Stiles laughs, reaches down between their chairs for his cane. He accidentally knocks it from where it had been leaning against his chair. Derek bends down to get it, Stiles does, too. Stiles lets out a soft whimper when their heads hit each other. He startles, knocks it farther under the table.

“Sorry,” Derek says, shifts back, looks away from where Stiles is rubbing his head. He scoots his chair back, drops to his knees, reaches under the table for the cane.

“Damn,” Stiles says softly. Derek’s ears turn a little red. He knows that tone of voice, that way Stiles’ breathing seems to elongate without getting bigger.

“Your, uh, your pants have sorta… you got a plumber’s crack, dude.”

And there comes the feelings of awkwardness again. Derek hits his head on the table trying to extract himself from below the table. Stiles laughs, Derek stands, looks away from Stiles, holds the cane out to him. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t even know what he could possibly say, what words could do to make him feel less… ham-handed.

Stiles takes his cane and Derek flees the house as quick as he can.

Outside, he leans on the wall next to the garage, concentrates on breathing. He can hear the kids from earlier laughing two houses down, someone else is watching Titanic North of where Derek is, and Stiles’ cane and feet making their way as quick as they can across the Argent house.

Not quick enough, apparently. Argents footsteps move faster than Stiles’, gain on his.

“Stiles—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Please, just let me explain.”

“Don’t. Just don’t talk to me. I’ve let enough people trample all over me. Literally and figuratively. I’m done. Ok? Do you understand? I’m done with you.”

For a moment, Derek thinks Argent’s heart stops beating but that must just be his imagination.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough to me already?”

Now there’s no way Derek imagines the way Stiles’ and Argent’s breath catch at almost the same time as they breath heavy, the way their hearts speed up.

“Stiles…”

“Just leave me alone, Chris. Please. Just… catch up with your wife and leave me alone.”

Stiles sounds broken, voice quiet and soft. Derek feels terrible for listening in, feels like he’s intruding all over again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really not that happy with how I've written this chapter.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pharmacy Josh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't post anything for a few days because I lost it... No shit. Lost the next three chapters. Yeap. They were gone.   
> I found them now. Obviously. Since I'm posting... but yeah, they were gone for a while and I have no idea where they went but I found them in my overnight bag today while at The Ginger's. 
> 
> I think they left in protest of the fact that I've solidified what I'm going to do with the plot. Like I have it written down now and everything. The whole thing. And ohhh, bees, you peeps... you peeps are going to cry so much. 
> 
> Have patience with the next few chapters. They are important but seem trivial.

**Stiles covers his mouth and rubs** , eyes shut as tight as he can. His ass is numb; he’s been sitting on this bench for thirty minutes and his ass his numb. With a thunk, Stiles lifts his head and lets it drop back against the bench. His mouth feels like the arid inside of a cat’s ass, and his brain is trying to drill its way through his skull and down his neck. He wishes he had sunglasses. Or a blindfold: a soft, cold blindfold. Stiles feels silly in sunglasses anyway.

Right now he just feels silly in general. There’s a chronic ache of embarrassment inside of him that wraps around pain of betrayal, warmed by the anger he feels towards Chris. He hates florescent lights. Hates how stark and revealing it is. Stiles can never look anything less than what he is under this manufactured white light and what he is right now is a home wrecker. Some stupid teen that aided and abetted a married man in screwing around behind his wife’s back. He also hates Target. And whiskey. And werewolves.

“Stilinski?” (Stile-in-sky.)

Stiles drops his hand into his lap, looks up, asks the werewolf gods _why me_ , and picks up his cane. He plants it on the ground and levers himself off the stupid bench and over to the pharmacy window, pulling out his wallet.

“What’s, uh, that’s me,”

The guy behind the counter smiles at Stiles, begins ringing him up. Stiles doesn’t even listen to how much the guy says, just hands over his dad’s credit card, signs his name on the receipt, and shoves his wallet back into his pocket.

“Thanks, man,” he says and grabs his sack o’ drugs, turns to leave.

“Stiles!”

…. And turns back.

“Yes?”

The guy smiles, his scruffy face and fluffy black hair vaguely familiar but his brain is still drowning in the alcohol from last night for him to get it. Pharmacy guy spreads his arms, grins, says”

“You don’t recognize me? Come on, I had to be your favorite person back in high school.”

Stiles squints, tilts his head (ow), and oh, _oh!_ He gets it now, laughs. That’s just priceless.

“Joshua? Joshua Harmon? You’re Beacon-Hills-Target-Pharmacy-Josh-How-May-I-Help-You?”

Josh’s nose crinkles when he laughs.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Wow, man. This is, uh, quite a change. You’ve gone from being my drug dealer to… being my drug dealer.”

Josh laughs again. His eyes crinkle the same way his nose does. It’s kind of cute.

“Yeah, it took a lot of soul-searching to get me here.”

Stiles smiles, changes his grip on his bag, kind of feels like throwing up. Again.

“Well, uh, I’ve got to get going but I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, man. Yeah. Definitely,” Josh says, his voice weirdly serious for a moment. Stiles dismisses the feel like Damocles’ sword is hanging over his head that Josh exudes. Most everything to Stiles feels like certain doom right now. He waves at Josh, turns, limps his way out of the store.

Sitting in his Jeep, Stiles can’t quite shake that doom feeling. He laughs to disperse it but it isn’t effective. It’s a strange sort of town. Things like this happen all the time. It shouldn’t be a little suspicious that his drug dealer is working in the pharmaceuticals field. It makes sense, even. A sort of life calling for the guy. Stiles only wishes he had that sort of clear understanding of what he wanted from life and from himself.

Briefly, an image of Chris laughing, head thrown back, neck bent, larynx bobbing up and down like the ringer on a strongman striker, crosses Stiles’ mind. His heart rings. In pain or something else, he doesn’t let himself know. Stiles shoves it away and starts the Jeep, he doesn’t want to be any later than he already is to Danny’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pharmacy Josh is an OC of mine that I like to re-use. He's also in What Did You Expect With A Mouth Like That?   
> Found http://archiveofourown.org/works/460860  
> It's my version of a crack!fic.
> 
> Also I made a new word: mangstologue: A manly angsty monologue. It was a word I needed for my notes on this chapter. 
> 
> Strongman striker: http://sailor.mnsun.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/ho27party-2.jpg?9d7bd4


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek hates Tuesdays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I legit lost the next few chapters on like Wednesday night. I thought the worst. But I found them. Obviously.

**Derek lifts his fifteenth bag** of books onto the counter and sniffs plaintively. He hates Tuesdays. No, he hates Isaac and Cathy and Argent and Victoria and maybe Stiles a little bit. Mostly right now he hates Isaac and Cathy. Both are evil of the highest degree and together their powers of sheer evil… evilness made this possible.

His nose itches and he’s had fifty-three paper cuts. Plus his nose itches. The whole inside of his face itches. Derek pulls the books out of the paper sack in handfuls of three. He wishes his hands were bigger. Isaac has huge hands (fifty-four paper cuts), he can hold four or five books a hand. He can hear Isaac at the back of the store, telling some girl about some book series, Legend something; Derek thinks it has to do with Quiditch? Whatever it is, Isaac likes it a lot and talks animatedly about it.

Counting the number of books, he can practically see Isaac’s half-smiling face and waving arms as he speaks (fifty-five paper cuts).

Ah! Another Twilight book. Derek holds the book in one hand, picks up a pen in the other, marks a tally under Isaac’s column. The store has a running pool on who buys dinner on reshelving and inventory nights based on what book they most frequently buy back. Cathy almost always wins (some book about zombies and werewolves and some French dude who wears stupid boots).

There’s laughter from behind the shelf closest to Derek’s counter. A group of young women, as is their Tuesday afternoon habit, are gathered behind it, talking about him. Buy-back days are the worst. Derek frowns, leans his elbows on the counter, frowns harder, flips through the books in front of him, checking for damage or writing (Fifty-six paper cuts). He writes the name that’s on the bag on a receipt, adds up the total value of the books, tosses the paper bag in the recycle bin. The group of girls is talking about what they think he’d be like in bed and Derek wants them to go away now.

He’d thought he’d escaped this when he’d picked a job at a bookstore. Turns out, no place is safe from ogling. (Fifty-seven paper cuts)

Derek stacks the books onto the cart they use to haul them around. Cathy is humming to herself southeast of him, reshelving mysteries; the girl talking to Isaac thanks him. Derek listens to her sneakered feet head away from Isaac, stacks the rest of the books on the counter onto the shelf. Isaac’s heartbeat is even, Derek hears book slide onto the shelf, and the group behind the bookshelf take their expected first few steps towards him.

Derek hefts another bag of books onto the counter, says, “I’m not even supposed to be here today,” as quietly as he can. Isaac snorts, says, “We should watch that tonight.”

Derek hears the sound of hands sliding against each other rapidly, Isaac dusting his hands off. Derek’s heartbeats a little harder very briefly. He starts pulling books out of the paper bag. (Fifty-eight paper cuts). He compresses his mouth to hide his smile, not wanting to encourage the young women approaching him, marks a tally in Isaac’s column, and two in Cathy’s. He wants to get out of here even sooner now, looking forward to curling up on the couch with Isaac and watching one of his favorite movies.

“Hi, Derek!”

…. And there goes the happy feeling. Goodbye happiness, it was nice to wave at you from the other side of the Grand Canyon again. Derek looks up, counting all four dirty-mouthed ooglers, and pastes on his best customer-service face.

“What can I do for you today?”

“We were wondering how the buy-backs work,” says the red (like a stop-light) haired one. He thinks her name is Addie. She smiles, her Monroe piercing kind of makes her look cute. She reminds him of Allison back before she grew up.

“You bring books in a bag, two bag limit a trip, and give them to us then we add it up and you get credit or cash for the books.”

Red Addie frowns, leans back on one hip.

“We mean—” she starts. Blond… Emily? cuts her off.

“It just seems kinda arbitrary, doesn’t it? You give us whatever you feel like and we give you books we spent way more on than we get back.”

Derek would like them to go away. He’d like to go away. He doesn’t care that their question is a good one, the way they’re looking at him makes him uncomfortable, the way they always look at him makes him uncomfortable. It’s been this way since he hit nineteen and bulked up, grew into the gawky frame and weirdly wide ears. Sort of grew into them. His ears still stick out, his face is still weird but now it’s overridden by the abs and the rest of the muscle he spends, what he knows to be, an inordinate amount of time on.

But no amount of muscle building makes the nervous and insecure sixteen year old with the ears that Jenny Ruthers and Tony Nielson and Carl Samberg used to flick go away. Not even time has rid Derek of himself. At least now no one calls him Dumbo, even if the nickname is more accurate. Though, he’ll never find his mom, hold her hand through a barred window as she sings him to sleep. Those dreams are the worst. Where she reaches through the basement doors and almost, almost grabs his hand, smiles, and sings about the little babe wolf in the glen, hawlin’ a’ th’moon all ‘lone. And then her words turn to smoke and her songs to scream and Uncle Peter is a rat who tells him that if he just worked out a little more he could flap his big stupid ears and save her.

“Speak, Rick, or you’ll make them feel uncomfortable,” Isaac says from the historical fiction section, amusement in his voice. Derek hates how his awkwardness amuses Isaac. Hates the way his Dumbo ears start to feel hot when Isaac smiles that smile of his reserved for when he knows Derek is having trouble being human.

“We give eight percent the original sell price of the books, maybe a little less or more, depending on the condition. We sell them for about thirty-five percent the original sale price. You get about a quarter of our estimated earning from the book.”

Brunette 2… Larissa? frowns, tilts her head, her dark lips pout out.

“But that seems so cheap when you put it that way.”

Derek is out of words, has probably met his maximum for the day. He chews on his tongue for a few seconds, narrows his eyes. He can hear Isaac’s amused half-snort plainly. He looks down, scratches his cheek, feels his ears start to warm.

“I… don’t really know. My boss could explain it all pretty well but,” he looks up at them with his head ducked like that, smiles sheepishly, “I can’t.”

Brunette 1, Claire, he thinks her name is Claire, coos a little. He hears her heartbeat speed up just a tad, can smell her body odor just a little stronger now.

“I’m bad at math, too.”

Derek shrugs, hooks his thumbs into his belt loops.

“I’m good at other stuff, just not so much the accounting.”

“Nah,” Red Addie says, smiling the sort of predatory way that always makes Derek feel on edge, “You’re more of an action-guy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Blond Emily agrees, her eyes widen, mouth turns into a little circle, “I’ve been meaning to ask, speaking of, what gym do you go to?”

She tucks her hair behind her ear, smiling at him.

Derek bites his tongue once, very hard. He can hear Isaac snickering at him, can feel his ears get hot in response.

“I don’t go to a gym.”

“But,” Brunette 1, Claire, reaches out, Derek tenses, she touches his bicep. “How do you stay so fit?”

Derek wants her to stop touching him. Wants her to stop looking at him like that. Wants them all to stop.

“He does lots of pull ups on this doorjamb pull up bar thing every morning,” Isaac says, parks the book cart behind Derek, next to the one Derek’s filling up.

“We had to replace the jamb twice because he kept ripping it off when he tried to do it straight on the jamb.”

Isaac grins at the women, all teeth, slings his arm around Derek’s waist. Derek relaxes into the familiar touch; Isaac’s fingers grip his hip tight. They smile politely at Isaac.

“He’s got really strong hands,” Isaac says, smirks, tightens his fingers so much on Derek’s hip that, if Derek were human, it’d hurt and probably bruise a helluva lot.

“Well, thanks for explaining the book prices to us,” Emily says, grabs the two brunettes and dragging them away.

Red Addie smiles at Isaac a little goofily. Derek doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking about.

“Addie,” hisses Larissa, Addie waves at Derek, winks at Isaac.

“You’re so lucky,” she says. Isaac thanks her, his hand pulls, Derek’s hip grazes against Isaac’s.

“I so am,” he _simpers_ and she laughs, waves, trots after her friends. Derek doesn’t wait until they can’t see him anymore, doesn’t wait until they’re alone before he turns, presses his forehead against Isaac’s cheek, rubs the tip of his nose against his neck. (His ears are turning red; redder than they had since he actually was sixteen.)

She’s behind the bookshelves again with her friends, he knows they’re watching, knows it, but doesn’t really want to stop. He loops his arm behind Isaac, lightly gripping the hem of Isaac’s shirt. He feels like a lost child, gripping the edge of a stranger’s coat and hoping that they’ll take him some place safe. He hates that he has to go onto his toes to rub his mouth and nose against the soft skin behind Isaac’s ear but not enough to stop him from doing it.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. Isaac runs his hand up and down his side, turns his head, butts his cheek against Derek’s.

“Any time,” his voice is soft. Derek can hear the girls behind the bookshelf cooing. Ogling spies. Derek chuffs out a snort, drapes his other arm across Isaac’s chest, hooks his neck with his fingers, pulls him in for a hug-like thing. Isaac nuzzles his neck, Derek tenses, thinks for a second that Isaac is going to nip. Derek feels his chest heat up the same way his ears did.

“It’s not every day I get to be your boyfriend,” Isaac says, voice still soft. His lips graze Derek’s neck and for some reason, Derek aches. For a moment, one small, strange and confused moment, he wants Isaac to bite him, drag his teeth down Derek’s throat and pinch the thin flesh of his neck between blunt front teeth and cause a sharp pain that would sear down Derek’s very core.

Derek shakes it off and Isaac with it. He feels cold and hot and more than a little freaked so he laughs. It sounds awful. There may have even have been the ghost of that old yipping squeak he thought he’d outgrown, says “If only,” with an over-exaggerated sigh.

Says, “Then I could get some peace.” There’s a crash that drowns out his voice. Derek turns, heart pounding, laughs in relief. Isaac has knocked over the book cart. Derek grins, asks, “Run over your foot again?”

Isaac ducks his head, kneels, starts picking up books.

“Just help me clean this up,” he says, demeanor more serious, less jovial, than he was before. Derek gets on his knees, starts picking up the books.

“I was thinking we could order a pizza for dinner,” Derek says, stacks a physiology book on top of a kid’s book, heart racing for some reason.

“How about we make spaghetti instead?”

Derek doesn’t look up, doesn’t try to see Isaac’s face, doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to.

“With garlic bread and broccoli?”

Now he glances up, quick, only once. Isaac nods, looking at Derek as he stacks books.

“Sounds good but you’re in charge of the sauce,” he says, still staring at Derek. It makes him feel a little uncomfortable, like his clothes don’t fit anymore. He shifts his knees a little farther apart, hoping to make the feeling go away. Sometimes he regrets his change from baggy pants to tight. Maybe this pair has gotten a little too small.

Isaac grins at Derek, shoves half a dozen books onto the cart. Derek ducks his head back down, ignores the way his skin feels singed, knowing that Isaac is watching him. When they finish, they sit on the floor, backs against the stacks of bags of books behind Derek’s counter.

“That girl. The, uh, red haired one. She smelled off,” Isaac says, wiping his hands together.

Derek grunts, leans his head back until his head hits the counter. Isaac shoves Derek’s leg, picks some lint off of one of the tears in Derek’s jeans. Derek’s nose itches still. He wishes it would go away. Take this unsettling feeling with it. Isaac leans against him and his stomach catapults. Derek hits his head against the counter, Isaac huffs through his nose in amusement, pats Derek’s leg. The pressure builds in Derek’s sinuses; the girls are talking about how cute they are and speculating about gay bookstore romances. Derek sneezes. Hard.

“When are you going to admit that you have allergies?”

“I don’t have allergies.”

Isaac snorts, slaps Derek’s thigh, rubs where he hit lightly, as if apologizing for the sting, (the jolt through Derek’s body is only caused by surprise and nothing else) stands, says, “Maybe if you lie hard enough to yourself, it’ll become true.”

Derek sneezes again. He hates Tuesdays.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evasive maneuvers don't work as well in conversations as they do on the battle field. Actually, they probably have the same success rate, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally posted these out of order for a second there. Lots of mistakes this week.

**Stiles moans Danny’s name and slumps** down farther into his seat.

“You’re my favorite.”

Danny laughs, clicks his bottle of Smirnoff against Stiles’.

“You just want me for my access to alcohol and Jacuzzi.”

“Yesss,” Stiles hisses, spreading his arms against the back of the tub, “I want to use you for your things.”

Danny snorts again, takes a sip of his drink. Stiles watches clouds slink across the sky, mind buzzing with a pleasant emptiness that he refuses to question. Wake Up Alone starts playing and Stiles wrinkles his nose briefly but doesn’t bother saying anything about it. So Stiles and Danny’s music tastes don’t exactly mesh, it’s all music.

A tide of depression laps at him the same way the Jacuzzi water bubbles around his torso. He doesn’t think about how Chris would have liked this, about what he would look like in his swim trunks with his hair wet.

Stiles bets he’d prefer the pool, would prefer the ability to swim about in the cool water, weightless and breathless. Chris’s arms would cut through the water smoothly, his legs kicking behind him easily. Stiles would sit on the steps and he’d swim to and from Stiles, coax him out with his smiles and his wet hair slicked back from his face. Stiles would bet Chris would hold his hips the same way he does in the shower. They would swim together, wet body against wet body; Chris' firm hands bracketing his hips, the sun bright and warm above them, the water cool.

“So… Chris Argent.”

Stiles jumps, water splashes over the sides, Danny laughs, wipes water off his face. For one seeringly-panicked moment, Stiles thinks Danny can read minds and knows what he was (not) thinking of.

“Have you let him explain?”

“Danny—”

“I don’t get how you can not want to know. If it were me I’d want him to explain himself.”

Stiles’ jaw flexes, rolls his bottom lip into his mouth.

“What’s there to explain? He used me to cheat on his wife,” Stiles says, looks at the controls for the Jacuzzi. Danny moves in the peripheral of Stiles’ vision.

“A wife he hadn’t seen in years. He was just as surprised as everyone else to see her.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, smells the bromine in the Jacuzzi, the leftover smell of chlorine in the air, Gone Baby, Don’t Be Long starts to play. Stiles should really have a talk with Danny about his relaxing music.

“See her here. Not alive. He knew she was alive. He knew and he lied about it.”

Danny sets down his drink and scoots closer, Stiles raises his left leg and puts his foot on Danny’s leg to keep him where he is. Danny’s fingers wrap around Stiles’ shin, squeezing briefly.

“Don’t you think that’s a little odd? He knew she was alive but doesn’t do anything about it or talk to her, doesn’t tell his daughter her mom’s alive, and then spends the next few years acting like a widower,” Danny says, leans further over. The smell of bromine is strong in the water, the heat bubbles more than just the water around Stiles.

“He _grieved,_ Stiles. Something must have happened.”

Stiles pushes with his left leg, raises his arms in a confrontational shrug, leans his head foreword, shakes it. Water drips from his forearm and he says:

“I don’t know! I don’t know what happened. I can’t even think of anything that would make the two of them make sense. None of it makes any sense. Not a damn second of it. I don’t get it and, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Stiles drops his arms, they splash into the water, Danny flinches back from the spray, wipes his face with his hand. He gives Stiles his best none-of-your-bullshit look and Stiles takes a deep breath, lets his body sink under the bubbling water of the Jacuzzi.

His stomach turns with the bitter taste of bromine in his mouth. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because someone upstairs hates Derek's balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That someone could probably be me.  
> I dunno. I just like making Derek suffer. A lot. Make him suffer a lot. Not that I enjoy it a lot.  
> OK, it may be both. Maybe.

**His shirt is riding up,** the band of his boxers are dark green and his jeans are too loose to stay up over them. But the point is that his shirt is maybe a size too small because when Isaac lifts his arms, Derek can see a large swatch of his skin. He should go over and help Isaac. Derek doesn’t know why he’s even hiding right now, watching Isaac attempts at prying a box off a shelf just above his reach. It’s not like Isaac doesn’t know he’s there, he always knows where Derek is.

“I can’t reach the box,” Isaac says, the veil of privacy lifts from Derek’s mind.

“Noticed,” Derek says, steps out from behind a stack of boxes in an attempt to distance himself from his strange thoughts today. Isaac turns, huffs, and raises his eyebrows in an unimpressed look.

“Help me." His voice is tight, jaw half clenched, angry. Derek doesn't even know what he did to piss him off.

“How? You’re taller than me.”

Isaac rolls his eyes, purses his lips.

“Just pick me up already.” He crosses his arms, leans back on one hip, waits with his mouth puckered in a moue of discontent as Derek walks slower than usual towards him. Derek has always liked that about Isaac; the constant little sulky looks, the almost chronic pout. It makes him think of paintings he’d seen in art museums of petulant beauties, haughty and mythological: beyond Derek and beyond the artist who could only paint their beauty from a distance.

Isaac turns away, bouncing his leg in impatience. Derek would sort of like to know how he manages to bounce his leg and stand at the same time. It’s a trick he’s only ever seen Isaac do. Derek grabs Isaac’s hips; they stop twitching with the movement of Isaac’s leg. He braces himself, and lifts.

There’s a few wobbly moments as Isaac finds Derek’s thighs with his shod feet and balances himself on them. Derek looks up because his only other option is to look at Isaac’s butt. Isaac grunts, twists a little back and forth. Derek knows there’s probably a dog butt-sniffing joke somewhere in here that Stiles could find.

“So…” Derek says, feels the need to break the weirdly brittle air that’s been between them for hours. “I hear you like mudkips.”

Isaac stills, box balanced precariously half on his hands and the edge of the shelf. Derek holds his breath, wonders if Isaac is too young to get it, butts his head against Isaac’s (very) lower back (butt) because of course he doesn’t get it. That stupid Internet joke is older than Isaac’s car, possibly even the apartment complex they live in. It’s ancient and Derek is still an awkward sixteen year old who thinks perverted Pokémon jokes are a little (lot) funny. Then Isaac laughs. Laughs so hard that he loses balance.

They fall.

And take a few of the boxes with them. Derek laughs, stumbles, tries to keep them up but it’s no use. The boxes tear open, books rain down on him and he loses his footing. Isaac elbows him in the stomach when they land. Derek coughs, laughs, can’t stop grinning even if he’s sure they should be severely injured from this.

“Look what you’ve done,” Isaac says, breathless, rolls off of Derek, looks up at him through his fringe. Derek grins, lets his head fall back against the concrete floor. He can hear Cathy’s feet, her short heels easy to distinguish, her voice yelling, “What happened?” She sounds worried. Derek can’t stop grinning at Isaac, watches him clear a space in the books to prop himself up on his elbows. There’s a paperback wedged under Derek’s side but he doesn’t really care.

“We’re fine,” Isaac yells, still smiling, “Lost my footing and fell.”

He hears her shoes’ click-click-clicks on the cement, her heartbeat slightly disturbed. Derek gets his elbows under him, props himself up and looks around at the mess they’d made. Cathy sighs, tisks.

“I hope you boys didn’t hurt yourself making this mess,” she says, her worry not very well hid under the stern demeanor. Derek smiles at her, Isaac gets his hands under him, pushes up into a kneeling position beside Derek.

“We’re fine, Cathy. I just goofed up.”

She nods, purses her lips a little.

“You two trouble makers get this cleaned up and then you can go.”

Isaac perks, Derek perks, too. Inwardly.

“Really?”

“I think you two have reaped enough trouble for the day, yes,” she says, amused fondness in her voice.

“Thank youuuuu,” Isaac shouts at her turning back.

“You’re such a dork,” Derek says. Isaac punches the soft part of Derek’s inner elbow and he collapses back with a surprised shout, hits his head on the cement.

“I’ll show you a dork,” he says, punches Derek in the kidneys. Derek laughs, smacks Isaac’s fists away. Isaac jumps him, grabs at Derek’s wrists; his knee digs into Derek’s stomach. Derek plants his feet on the ground and lifts. Isaac’s eyes go wide as he starts to lift off the ground, Derek laughs, keeps the movement going, rolls them. Derek gets one of Isaac’s arms in his hand, an elbow to the face. He bares his teeth at Isaac in a grin, Isaac catches the side of his hand on Derek’s neck, his knee comes up, makes contact with Derek’s groin and—ouch. He maybe yelps.

Derek sits up, hands automatically reaching down to cup his parts. Isaac’s eyes go wide, body stills, even stops breathing for a little. Derek scrunches his eyes shut. Twice, _in as many days._ Why did people hate him so much. It doesn’t take long to heal but it still hurts a lot. He presses his hand harder against himself; the pressure helps the throbbing go away a little quicker.

Isaac makes a strange strangled noise and wriggles. Derek doesn’t see him move so much as feel it, hips sliding between Derek’s knees as he pulls himself out from under Derek.

“Holy shit, I am _so_ sorry. I didn’t mean to- are you OK? Holy shit. Holy shit.”

Derek grunts, nods, refuses to let his eyes water. It’s mostly gone now. He looks up at Isaac, his sneakers brush Derek’s jeans lightly, lip between his teeth, eyes wide. Derek takes his hand off his junk like it burns to touch, looks away from Isaac with his hands planted on the ground, body angled towards Derek. The concrete is hard under his knees.

“It’s fine,” he says, looks away from Isaac to the mess they’ve made. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

“Yeah, OK.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm not making these chapters angsty enough.  
> Needs more mangstologues. Yup.
> 
> I'll fix that with the next few chapters.  
> See y'all in like a week. Obligations call and all that.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles kills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at gore.

**Stiles doesn’t see him standing in the road.** Not until the, oh moon above, it’s not just blood. There are chunks of… stuff he’d rather not name on his windshield. He turns his windshield wipers on (because, really: why not?).

Wiper. Just the one. He forgot that Erica had torn off his other one to beat Scott with. He probably should talk to her about that. Really should.

It squeaks as it moves in an unproductive arch, knocks little bits of offal out of its trajectory. All Stiles can think about is that cooking show Danny made him watch not an hour ago and how the judge had yelled ‘No heart! No tongue!’ like it was a bad thing. Maybe in other circumstances it is. Stiles knows he always enjoyed it when Chris used his tongue. Really enjoyed it. Like, wow, something that gross shouldn’t be allowed to feel that good. As for his heart, well, Stiles never had that to begin with so he’d have to agree with the judges.

No heart, and, yeah, no tongue now either.

That’s about when Stiles’ engine finally kicks it. Stiles hits his head on the steering wheel a few times, blows a raspberry, takes the, now useless, key from the ignition. Of course. Of course this happens now.

He grabs his cane from the passenger seat, opens the car door, steps out, putting his hand in deer… stuff levering himself out.

“Ahhhohhh. That’s just…” Stiles shakes his hand back and forth, hopping back from his Jeep on his left foot.

“Peachy. Greatest middle to the crap-tastic week I’m having. Really, thanks universe. This is just what I needed.”

A lowing gurgle comes from behind him. Stiles shoves his hand into his pocket, fingers wrapping around the (mostly not illegal) switchblade he keeps on himself, turns and… slumps.

Because the buck he just gored with his Jeep isn’t exactly the biggest threat ever. Stiles looks left, right, ignores the fact that he’s already standing in the road, pulls out the switchblade, walks over to the buck, now part bisected laying in the middle of the road, and kneels (with much difficulty) next to his head.

He chuffs a labored breathe out, struggles to get his front hooves under him.

“Shh,” Stiles says quietly, hooks his cane handle into his jeans, and places his left hand under his ear, spans his fingers across his dainty jaw.

“Just keep still dear. Heh… still dear deer…”

Stiles smiles a brittle smile as the buck makes another pained noise, blood foaming out of his cute black nose. He keeps his hand there, holding down his head, looks over the rest of the buck’s body.

“Damn, I got you good, didn’t I?”

His short, tawny fur is matted with blood, belly ripped in a strange trapezium shape, from torn off flank to ribs that have broken jagged and tear through his skin. Stiles can see bone, brittle and snapped so far into pieces that the spongy marrow is exposed. His hip is broken, a large chunk of meat missing from his flank, exposing his cracked hipbone. When he struggles, causing tendons to flail, muscles to jerk, blood wells fast over the wounds and reminds Stiles of plate tectonic models he’d seen of Pangaea. There’s a lot of blood, leaking from his broken body onto the asphalt, seeping into the material of Stiles’ jeans.

He takes another breath, again much harder than his last, and soft pinkish red things poke out of his belly. His intestines remind Stiles of the pink frosting his next-door neighbor’s daughter had had on her birthday cake when he was ten. She had swiped her finger through it, laughing, and stuck the dirtied digit between where her two front teeth should be. She was three years younger than Stiles and used to follow him around whenever he played in the street with Scott. He’d expected the frosting to taste like strawberries but it had been sweetly bitter and rich.

“Shh, it’s OK; it’ll all be over for you soon.”

He tries to move his head but can’t quite manage it, his antlers now too heavy for him to lift. Stiles repeats himself, plants his left hand on his muzzle, strokes his thumb under his chocolate colored eye, grips his AO knife (distantly remembers when Chris had explained to him the difference between a switchblade and an assisted opening knife with this affronted look that reminded Stiles of when Scott had explained to him the long history of villainizing dogs in media and how really, pit bulls were kind and gentle animals that humans brutalized and then Stiles had stopped paying attention and kissed Chris because it wasn’t OK to look so adorable while talking about switchblades).

He can hear birds in the distance, calling to each other in the trees, the sun now so low behind them that it radiates no heat, and the buck is warm and scared under Stiles’ hand. He doesn’t say anything now, doesn’t attempt to calm him, knows it won’t be any help, just unlocks the black, applies pressure to the thumb stud, lets the spring take control and flip the blade the rest of the way out with a quiet click.

It doesn’t take much pressure to cut through his throat: the skin gives like the vinyl they use for pool floaties, his trachea affords the same amount of resistance as the stiff hosing Stiles had used to make his Lost in Space robot costume (Scott had gone as Will Robinson) when he was twelve. The noise his knife makes while cutting through his throat are unlike and like what the horror movies would have the populace believe. It’s less sickening, quiet, like that first cut into the Thanksgiving turkey his mom used to make.

Then there’s the sound of a car coming in the distance. Stiles waits until the buck has drawn his last breath and gushed his last ounce of blood before looking up. He doesn’t recognize the car. California plates, sea blue two-door sedan with a terrible paintjob. Stiles shivers, the buck’s blood now tacky and cold and all over him.

The car pulls to a stop on the side of the road across from Stiles’ Jeep, headlights point at the tableau of Stiles and his road kill companion. The car door opens, feet hit the ground, the headlights are too bright for Stiles to see who it is. He can hear the crunch of twigs and roadside gravel under his shoes.

“ _Holy shit._ Stiles?”

Stiles squints some more, raises his hand, still holding the semi-auto knife to block out the light, unwilling to lift his left hand from where he still has it spread out on the buck’s cooling muzzle.

“Joshua?”

“Wha-what happened?”

Stiles watches his outline get closer, gain shape and color, detail.

“I hit a deer.”

“ _Jesus fuck_. That’s just—that is just—Oh, god, I think I’m going to be sick.”

True to his word, Joshua lurches away and throws up.

He makes these gurgled choking noises that both do and don’t remind Stiles of the noises the deer had made not long ago.

Stiles tilts himself backwards until he falls on his ass, stretches out his right leg, wipes his blade off on his pants, and waits for Josh to finish being sick. There’s gravel under his palm that digs into his skin and sticks to the splotches of blood drying on his hands.

Josh clutches his stomach, heaves, and Stiles leans back on his hands, knife still in one, causing gravel to dig into the skin of his knuckles where his fingers wrap around it. The sun’s last rays of light are just barely there, outlining the tops of the trees in an uncertain light and Stiles just feels… tired, old, older than he has any right to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that coherent at all?
> 
>  
> 
> And on that note: see you peeps possibly some time next week maybe.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some meals are meant to be burnt. This just happens to be one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My alternate summary for this chapter was "Justifiable homicide for a delicious sauce," but I thought that maybe I should keep my jizz jokes to myself.

**About the time he’s pouring** the noodles into the pot, he gets a text from Boyd that says he’s staying at his parent’s place. Erica only sends him a picture of Allison and Scott kissing her cheeks to let him know where she is. Danny had already checked in half an hour ago for himself, Lydia, and Jackson. Derek saves the photo and drops in a little olive oil to the pot.

“Everyone checking in?”

Derek nods, pokes his wooden spoon at the stiff noodles.

“You know you’re supposed to boil the water before you put in the pasta, right?”

Isaac sounds amused. Derek can smell the mushroom he’s cutting, the zucchini he already chopped, and the broccoli drying next to the sink. He sets the spoon on the little wolf/dog shaped spoon holder Isaac got at a garage sale when they moved in.

“Why don’t you put on some music?”

Derek assents in a monosyllabic “Kay,” and exits the kitchen, thankful to Isaac for the tactful excuse to not be there when he cuts the onion. They make Derek’s eyes and nose hurt a lot. For some reason, it doesn’t bother Isaac but they turn Derek’s eyes red, and make them water uncontrollably, and his nose will sting like that one time he accidentally inhaled wolfsbain when he was thirteen and his sister dared him to sniff the flowers he didn’t recognize.

He opens the sliding glass door, closes the screen door to air out the oniony scent, plugs his phone into the stereo, opens up Pandora, and puts on his and Isaac’s playlist. Shapeshifter starts playing and Derek wonders at the cosmos’ sense of humor. He can hear Isaac’s chortles in the kitchen, the click as he turns on the exhaust fan, the rattle as it sucks onion-infested air out of the house.

When the scent mostly evaporates, Derek stops lurking by the screen door, walks back into the kitchen section, sits down on the tallest stool situated just on this side of the kitchen side of the room, watches Isaac stir in tomato paste to the skillet full of onions, garlic, and mushrooms.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, the exhaust fan now warmed up, runs quietly, the stove’s gas is mostly drowned out by the music, Isaac hums along to Debate Exposes Doubt, his eartbeat even. A man calls his child’s name on the other side of the complex, six separate TVs play different shows nearby, and the hum of traffic increases to the usual evening drone.

 

Isaac moans, startling Derek out of the stupor he’d fallen in to.

“Taste this sauce and try to not worship me, I dare you.”

He walks over to Derek, spoon in hand. Derek opens his mouth obediently and Isaac sticks the tip of the wood spoon in. A mystical combination of spices and vegetables dance across Derek’s tongue, tease his palate, and plunge warmly down his throat. It tastes better than masturbating feels. His eyes slide shut of their own volition, he grabs Isaac’s wrist when he tries to pull the spoon away.

Isaac lets out a strangely breathy laugh when Derek licks the spoon clean.

“I take it you like it,” he says, voice deep with pride.

Derek licks his lips and nods, looks up at Isaac.

His eyes are dilated, breathing a little shallow through his mouth like maybe he doesn’t want to smell something. Derek’s stomach relocates to somewhere in his throat. He swallows because that’s not a look of pride, not amusement, not even fondness. That’s… that’s—

“You missed some,” Isaac says, eyes fixed on Derek’s mouth, voice still quiet, still deeper than normal, reaches up his left hand, wipes his thumb across the corner of Derek’s mouth.

Derek remembers how in his sophomore year in high school he took a child development and sociology class and how his teacher had talked about a suckling reflex, this instinct where humans will latch on to something when it strokes near their mouths.

It’s the only explanation he has for what he does.

Isaac’s thumb tastes like spaghetti sauce, book dust, and salt. He hears Isaac’s breath catch in his throat, his heart speed up.

A strange noise escapes Derek’s throat and he surges up, Isaac’s thumb drops from his mouth, leaves a little wet patch on his bottom lip. Then Derek has his hands fisted in Isaac’s shirt, his mouth pressing hard against Isaac’s. Muffled by Derek’s mouth, Isaac grunts, raises his hands to hold Derek’s head, wooden spoon clattering to the floor. For a moment, Derek is afraid he’s going to push him away. He tenses, waits for the inevitable rejection.

Instead, Isaac’s hands slide through his hair, cup his skull, subtly change the angle of Derek’s head. Isaac opens his mouth, drags his teeth across Derek’s lips. He can’t really help the shiver that starts at the base of his spine and travels up and out. Derek pulls on Isaac’s shirt, tries to bring them closer together. Their knees bump and Derek softens his mouth, offers his lips to Isaac. Whose chest rumbles against Derek’s hands when he tugs on Derek’s bottom lip with his wide, blunt front teeth. Derek unclenches his hands, slides them down Isaac’s chest, over his sides, cups his lower back, pulls his body against his. Derek has to tip his head back to keep his mouth touching Isaac’s; he can tell without looking that Isaac is stooping just a little bit.

He licks Isaac’s upper lip, tastes salt, and sauce, and the chocolate milk he had earlier. Isaac captures his tongue between his teeth, sucks it into his mouth. Derek presses his hips against Isaac, backs him up until Isaac’s back hits the counter, bites at Isaac’s pouty lips.

Isaac makes this frustrated noise, removes his hands from Derek’s hair, presses his body against his, grabs Derek’s ass in his huge hands, and lifts, turns them.

It takes Derek a moment to reorient himself to this position from this perspective. Usually he’s the one doing the lifting and caging, dominating kisses and everything else. But he gets it eventually, squeezes Isaac’s sides with his thighs, plants his hands on the counter that’s now under his ass, sucks Isaac’s tongue into his mouth. Isaac’s groin is now even with Derek’s, he can feel the heat of it through his jeans.

He grabs Isaac’s ass, digs his fingers into it, and pulls until Isaac jerks against him, drops his head onto Derek’s shoulder, groans out a shaky, “Fuck,” and grinds his dick against Derek’s.

Mouthing at Isaac’s ear, he rocks his hips into Isaac’s movements. His teeth graze the top of Isaac’s ear; tongue delicately traces the shape of his antitragus.

“Derek,” he says, more breath than voice, fingers spanning over the tops of Derek’s hipbones, digging into the soft flesh of Derek’s sides. He grinds once, slow and long, against Derek, drags his lips across Derek’s shoulders to that point where trapezius meets neck, stretches his mouth open against it. Derek can hear his hot moist breath leaving his mouth, skirting across Derek’s back, can feel his teeth just barely graze before he tenses.

Derek lets out a wheezy whine that, under other circumstances, he’d staunchly ignore the existence of, when Isaac’s teeth bite down. Right now he’s too busy watching white fireworks skitter across his field of vision while his body goes lax with a shudder.

Isaac drags his teeth across Derek’s neck and Derek’s right hand comes up of its own volition to fist in his hair, head banging back against the cupboard to give Isaac more room to work with. He sucks and bites along whatever skin Derek’s shirt exposes of his neck and shoulder.

His free hand reaches between them to insinuate itself between Isaac’s jean-covered cock and his. Isaac bites down hard on the sensitive skin of Derek’s neck just below his ear when he squeezes his cock through his jeans. Derek makes a (not needy) noise and jerks, fingers fumbling to get Isaac’s pants open.

He’s got them unbuttoned, fingers tugging at the zip, tempted to just rip it and be done with it, Isaac’s tongue laps at the large tendon of Derek’s neck, sporadically leaving nips that ruin Derek’s coordination whenever he thinks Derek has gathered any of his wits about him when there’s a loud and angry hissing from behind them.

Isaac turns his head, twists his torso as best he can with Derek’s thighs holding him still. Derek doesn’t bother to look, honestly doesn't care if it’s his imminent demise so long as he can touch Isaac’s dick before he dies.

“D—Oh jesus, _Rick,_ fuck,” Isaac says, shudders, braces his hands on either side of Derek’s legs on the counter, and twitches his hips. He feels as good as Derek thought he would in his hand; velvety and firm. He bows his head until his forehead touches Derek’s, his hips push foreword into the ring of Derek’s fingers.

Derek can smell Isaac’s breath where it buffets his face: spit, tomato, olive oil, onion, garlic, the ham and bean soup he’d had for lunch, and chocolate milk. He kisses him because he can admit now that he wants to and because that combination of things smells a little bad. Isaac kisses back in little bursts, says:

“Rick,” a kiss, another, “We’ve gotta,” a groan, Derek’s teeth graze along his jaw, “Ssstop,” he catches Derek’s mouth with his own, pushes his tongue into his mouth, traces his front teeth, breaks away, pants.

“Seriously,” he says, still giving little involuntary thrusts into Derek’s hand. The hisses are getting angrier and louder, Derek can smell the sauce starting to burn, the definitely over-boiled noodles, and quite honestly does not give a shit.

Isaac kisses him a few more times, a smile stretching his thick lips out. He laughs, grabs Derek’s hand, extracts himself slowly from Derek’s grip.

“Later,” he says, a playful smirk on his lips, a sparkle in his eyes. Derek frowns, reaches for him again. He laughs and dances out of Derek’s reach. He stands just beyond Derek’s reach and stuffs himself back into his dark green boxers, buttons and zips his jeans, turns and pulls the pot of pasta off the stove, sets it to the side and turns off the burner under the sauce, picks up the skillet.

Derek leans back against the cabinets behind him and watches, waits until Isaac turns back around before reaching down and adjusting himself in his jeans. Isaac’s breath catches; his eyes fix on where Derek’s fingers curl around himself. He licks his pouty lips and Derek thinks about blowjobs as hard as he can in Isaac’s direction.

He thinks he’d love to see those big lips around his cock a lot. Isaac grins at him, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, quirks one of his eyebrows. His lip pops out of his mouth red and wet and Derek can’t look away from it.

“Drain the pasta, would you?”

Isaac smirks at Derek, stirs the sauce with his wooden spoon, licks some of the sauce off the tip of the spoon. Either the room gets a lot brighter and a little distorted or Derek’s face slips a little bit. Derek takes in a deep breath to calm himself. He can smell the apartment, the neighbor’s cat, pasta sauce, noodle water, and Isaac’s body: the sweat that’s gathered, the pheromones he’s putting off, the slightly sweet and bitter scent of precome.

Derek hops off the counter on shaky legs, walks over to the pot of pasta. If Isaac wants to eat first then fine, they can do that. Isaac’s going to need his strength for later anyway because Derek is going to fuck that sulky mouth of his if it kills him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shapeshifter is a Marcy Playground song. Debate Exposes Doubt is a Death Cab For Cutie song. 
> 
>  
> 
> Legit probably won't see me for a week or so.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait until the hits on this story get about one hundred more because then I'll be able to shout: IT'S OVER 9000!!!!!!!!!!! In big bold letters. I'll have to find a way to work in a DBZ abridged joke to commemorate it.

**“Thanks for helping me drag the body off the road.”**

The car is quiet; the radio plays something Stiles doesn’t recognize.

“You can thank me by never saying it that way again. I have a bad enough ego being a supplier of drugs without someone expressing their gratitude at my help with disposing of bodies while covered in blood.”

Stiles laughs, possibly louder than is necessary. The quiet and smoothness of Joshua’s car bothers Stiles. He’s been driving his baby for years now and hardly rides in anyone else’s car. He’s gotten used to the constant rattle too loud to play the radio over without bursting an eardrum and the bouncy way it moves over every little pebble.

“Thanks for waiting with me for the tow truck.”

“Two can play this game. Thanks for having a suspiciously stained towel in your trunk to sit on so you don’t ruin my upholstery.”

Stiles laughs again, picks at the dried blood on his hands.

“See, this is backwards. _I’m_ supposed to be the shady one, seeing as how I’m the drug dealer and yet you’re the creepy one with the suspicious towels.”

Stiles ducks his head, smiles, realizes he probably shouldn’t feel flattered at being called creepy. He’s spent too much time around… well, everyone he knows, really. They all seem to think creeping is an acceptable pastime.

“I’m not creepy…”

“Say that to me again when you’re not covered in blood.”

“That—that is an unfortunately good point.”

Joshua laughs, turns on his left indicator, and comes to a complete stop.

“Come back to my place,” he says, looks at Stiles, a small, hopeful smile on his face. Stiles panics a little bit at how cute he looks.

“You’re asking the guy covered in blood with the suspicious towel to come over to your place and yet I’m the creepy one.”

Josh laughs.

“The tables have turned.”

Stiles huffs, attempts to hide his smile, eyes darting between Josh and where he’s picking at the flakes stuck to his knees that aren’t just blood.

“Your evasive not-answer has me nervous.”

Stiles sighs, gnaws on his lip.

“I just ended it with my last… thing. Like just, as in, last night and I don’t think—”

“Dude, I’m not like proposing. Just come over and hang out. Play some Left For Dead, reminisce about what losers we still are.”

“I kinda need a shower and a change of clothes. If you haven’t noticed, I’m covered in, well… mostly it’s blood.”

“Ah, but that’s part of your appeal.”

He grins at Stiles, his nose wrinkles cutely.

“Besides, I’ve got a shower and clothes. Last time I checked, anyway.”

Stiles scrunches up his mouth, squints at Josh.

“Alright. But if this turns out to be a surprise engagement party then I’m leaving you.”

Josh takes his right hand off the wheel, makes an X over his heart.

“Cross my heart, it’s not.”

It’s silent for a few seconds. Stiles gets a text from his mechanic saying he got his Jeep.

“Bridal showers don’t count as engagement parties, do they?”

Stiles snorts, leans against the car door.

“Not technically, no, but wouldn’t that be jumping the gun a little?”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for men covered in animal blood.”

Stiles laughs, watches the way Joshua’s forearms flex as he turns the wheel.

“You need to get checked out if that’s the case.”

“Pretty sure I already am.”

“Aren’t you just a cocky little fuck?”

“Not yet but I was hoping you’d help me with that.”

Stiles laughs, Josh turns his head and winks at Stiles with a little click of his tongue.

“Wow. Just wow. Do you practice that in front of a mirror?”

“Yes.”

Stiles laughs. It feels good to get away from people who actually know everything that goes on with Stiles. It’s… strangely relaxing.

And a little bit saddening for some reason Stiles doesn’t want to name. For tonight he’s just… a regular college kid, home from college, who runs into his ex-drug dealer and murders a deer. Right. Average. Normal. Stiles can do this. Probably. At least he knows how to successfully flirt now. That's one thing he has Chris to thank for. 


	32. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is terrible. The author!god's love of poetry is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm possibly both sappier and more cruel than I tend to think.

**The only thing Derek hates more** than being the first to arrive is having to wake up early just to be the first one to arrive on purpose. That and blue balls. Which he’s pretty sure Isaac is trying to give him. Though now, in the light of day, surrounded by Stiles’ scent, he feels oddly guilty. As if what little he did with Isaac is somehow infidelitous of him.

He can’t shake the shame that he wanted Isaac, touched him, kissed him, went places that he never should have if he still loved Stiles. And he did. There was no doubt about it. Being away from him may have dulled the pain of separation a bit but, surrounded by Stiles’ scent, Derek can’t deny that he still loves him. There isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t think about him doesn’t miss him, doesn’t want him back but… he knows he loves Isaac in some way. Maybe not the same way he loves Stiles, but he knows he loves him. He certainly desires him now that he’s letting himself admit it.

That’s not enough, though, is it? Wanting someone and wanting to be with them are two completely different things.

Derek wants Stiles. Has always wanted Stiles. Will always want Stiles. So how can he look at another person?

He doesn’t even have to be here. He trusts Stiles to handle pack business as well as or better than Derek can. Except… he likes being around him. Likes being able to sit and smell him, listen to his voice, his heart beat, his breathing, likes to assure himself that Stiles is fine and healthy (if not particularly happy right now). This pack may be Derek’s, may have his family name on it but it will always be theirs, his and Stiles, this thing that they built together with blood and sweet and sacrifice too painful to speak of.

By rights, its Derek’s pack but without Stiles it wouldn’t _exist._

Derek can hear Argent upstairs, his breathing, the rustle of cloth, the kitten’s purr. A car pulls up outside the house, radio blasting electronic that Erica would like.

“Thanks for the ride, man.” Stiles’ voice.

“Call me sometime and we’ll finish what we started, alright?”

“Yeah, sure. See ya.”

A car door slams, there are steps on the lawn, the car idles for a few seconds before the driver pulls away. Derek gets up from where he’s been sitting at the dining room table to get the door, curious about Stiles’ lack of car and the voice he didn’t recognize.

 

It’s when he opens the door that he catches it:

Stiles, blood, deer, viscera, and _other werewolf._

He knows his eyes go red, can feel the twitch of his body as it attempts to shift the rest of the way. It takes more than he’s willing to admit to keep it all in.

Derek doesn’t remember grabbing Stiles, doesn’t remember shutting the door or shoving him against it. His mind is entirely consumed with the scent of another werewolf, another pack, all over Stiles. Vaguely, he knows that Stiles is talking but it doesn’t make sense.

“You _stink._ ” Is all he manages to get out, chest heaving with the effort it takes not to, not to—He shakes his head, runs his palms down Stiles’ arms, presses his body against him, attempts to smother out the other scent.

“Hey, oh! Derek, we talked about the, the manhandling before, remember? Huh?”

Distantly, Derek hears a door open upstairs, a second heartbeat as frantic but less important than Stiles’.

“You let another _touch_ you.”

His fingers clench against Stiles’ biceps and he smells more blood. Fresh, human: Stiles.

“His scent is all over you.”

Derek shoves his nose against the shirt that Stiles is wearing, inhales.

“Come and _blood_ and deer and _werewolf_.”

Derek presses himself as hard as he can against Stiles, his heart beating faster and faster than it ever should. All he can think about, all he can see is Stiles. Stiles that loves Derek. Stiles that belongs to Derek. Stiles that let another werewolf touch him.

“Did you hunt with him? Kill with him? Did he take you? Fuck you?”

Derek presses his teeth against Stiles’ ear, letting him feel the snarl on his lips he can’t see like this.

“Derek. Derek, calm down. I haven’t been near another werewolf, OK? Just calm down.”

“Liar!”

Derek shakes him, fingers digging tight into Stiles’ shoulders.

“I can smell his stink all over you. Did you let him mark you?”

“Derek—”

Stiles’ shirt tears under Derek’s nails. He doesn’t care. It’s this, this, _interloper’s_ shirt anyway. Derek knows every shirt Stiles owns and this isn’t one of them. He thinks he hears someone say Stiles’ name but he doesn’t care about that either. Just presses his tongue over the hickey some other werewolf made on his Stiles. He drags his teeth down Stiles’ neck as hard as he can, shoves his hips against Stiles’, hears his breath catch in his throat, feels Stiles’ blunt human nails dig into his sides.

Derek moans, can’t help it. He hasn’t tasted Stiles in _so long_. He stretches his mouth over the hunk of meat at the neck/shoulder junction and bites as hard as he can without drawing blood.

“Fuck! Derek,” Stiles says and Derek can’t help worrying his teeth a little, working out one of those broken little sounds he knows he can get Stiles to make. It feels so good, so right, to have Stiles panting under him again, to feel his body shudder against Derek. Stiles’ hands slide up his sides, fist in his hair, tug just like they used to do.

Derek sucks, teeth still locked around Stiles’ flesh, hips rocking against Stiles.

“No! Don’t.” he hears Stiles say but ignores it. He can’t be talking to Derek because he can feel Stiles’ body responding under his, hear the way his breath catches in his throat when Derek runs his tongue over the flesh pinched between his teeth.

Stiles knows. Stiles understands how important it is for Derek to claim him. Stiles is his. Always his. No one else’s.

“That’ll just make it worse,” he says, voice trailing off, breathless towards the end when Derek clenches his jaw a little bit, realizing that Stiles is talking to someone else, not paying attention to Derek.

“What am I supposed to do?” He hears but can’t place the voice aside from knowing it’s Rival. All he cares about is the roaring of Stiles’ blood.

“Just, just let me handle it.”

Derek digs his fingers into Stiles’ lower back, rocks against him harder, wants Stiles to pay attention to him while he can’t recognize the desire as petty.

“You mean let you get mauled by—”

Derek’s canines catch a little on the skin of Stiles’ shoulder; start scraping off little bits of Stiles’ skin.

“Chris! You’re not helping. Just, just go away. Let me handle this.”

Derek’s nails scratch through the material of Stiles’ jeans. He wants to get these disgusting garments off of Stiles, wants to rid him of the offensive materials. He can taste something that’s just a little salty, just a little coppery in his mouth. Stiles hisses.

“No.”

“What?”

Stiles’ voice is thin, reedy. Not how Derek wants it.

“I’m not going to sit in another room and twiddle my thumbs while he _eats_ you.”

The shirt on Stiles’ back shreds under Derek’s fingers easier than his jeans did, his nails accidentally catch on Stiles’ skin. Stiles jerks against him as if he can’t decide which way to press his body.

“Fine. Just fine then. Have at it. Watch all you want but I did warn you.”

Stiles’ hands come up, stroke through his hair.

“Derek,” he says voice quiet, raspy, “Hey, big guy, can you understand me?”

Derek grunts, unwilling to let go of Stiles’ flesh, laps his tongue across the flesh nearest his teeth.

“He-hey,” he says, voice soft and wrecked how Derek likes it, “Come on, Sourwolf, you got to lighten up a little here.”

His hands clench, tear through the small amount of denim left between his fingers and the soft flesh of Stiles’ ass. He hears Stiles’ breath catch in his throat, feels his body arc against his, hears his head hit the door.

“Fffffuck. Ok, OK, I get it,” he says, laughs a little, “I’m yours.”

His fingers come up, hook onto Derek’s ears, tug just a little. Just how Derek secretly likes.

“I’m yours, Derek. I belong to you.”

His fingernails scratch behind Derek’s ears, thumbs run down the outer part of his ear.

“Shh,” he says, “I carry your heart with me,” he tugs on Derek’s ear, “Can you understand me? I carry your heart with me.”

Stiles takes a big breath, scratches his nails down Derek’s neck.

“I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart.”

Derek’s jaw relaxes a little; his body slows its rock.

“I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear. Whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling.”

Derek’s body stills entirely, the familiar words coming to him, calming him.

(Stiles’ sweet smile when Derek read it to him the first time.) His lips move without him meaning them to.

“I fear…”

Stiles’ right hand cups Derek’s cheek, the left one smoothes over his hair.

“Yeah, that’s it, big guy, keep going. I know you remember it.”

“I fear no fate. For you are my fate, my sweet.”

He sets his teeth gently to the already inflamed flesh of Stiles’ shoulder.

“I want no world for beautiful, you are my world, my true.”

(Stiles soft laugh when Derek had kissed him, repeating the lines over and over again, buried deep in his body, rocking gently.)

“And it’s you are whatever the moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.”

“Yes, yes, keep going, Derek.”

(Stiles’ mouth shaping the words against Derek’s skin, warm and safe and right.)

“Here is the deepest secret nobody knows,” Derek says (Stiles’ head thrown back against the pillows, fingers digging into the sheets, Derek’s tongue wiping a path up his chest.)

“Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life,” Stiles says, a small, sad smile on his face, hands smoothing through Derek’s hair.

Derek can feel his nails shorten, become blunt, his teeth slide back to human, eyes bleed in reverse.

“Which grows higher than a soul can hope or mind can hide and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart.”

He kisses across Derek’s forehead, runs his hands down Derek’s shoulders and arms, squeezes his elbows.

“I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart,” Derek says, shuts his eyes as tight as he can, suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment, nuzzles his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck.

“See you big stupid werewolf. There’s no need to mark me. I’m already yours. Always yours.”

Derek takes a shuddering breath, the world coming back to him.

Magpies squawk outside, finches chirp and scratch at tree branches, the morning news plays somewhere nearby, a third heartbeat stands somewhere behind Derek and witnesses his failures.

“I hurt you,” Derek says, lets go of Stiles, steps back, hands out by his sides like he’s admitting surrender. Stiles’ arms flop to his sides, blood running down them.

“Yeah, that’s kinda your modus operandi.”

Derek takes another step back, breathes through his mouth so he doesn’t have to smell, smell—anything. Stiles reaches out his left hand, holds onto the doornob as if it's now the only thing keeping him upright. 

“I—Stiles, why would you come around me smelling like that?”

Derek shudders, feels sick. This is all his fault. He could control himself when Stiles smelled like Argent. He shouldn’t have—he shouldn’t have peeled open so much shit by… with Isaac. If he hadn’t then maybe he would have had enough control to not do this, to hurt the person he loves most. Again. 

Stiles smiles, laughs a small, bitter noise, shrugs.

“Let’s just say I’ve had a busy night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this is where I want to take the story so I might scrap this chapter and rewrite it entirely. 
> 
>  
> 
> Poem by E.E. Cummings. I've purposely misquoted it.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris, Stiles, and a bag of peas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope AO3 doesn't like crash and burn because this is literally the only copy of this story in existence.

**Stiles has a bag of peas on his shoulder.** Correction: Stiles is sitting in his ex-thing’s kitchen, half (three quarters) naked, holding a bag of peas wrapped in a dishtowel to his shoulder while said ex… thing sterilizes the wounds his other ex (currently brooding in the den like the were-angster he is) left.

“Can you- Do you-“ Chris sighs, throws away the used medical gauze into the trashcan he dragged over, gestures at Stiles’ torso. “I need you to take off your shirt.”

Under any other circumstance, Stiles would find that sentence very amusing, would probably tease Chris about trying to get Stiles naked or his sucky come-ons but he’s tired and sore and doesn’t want to be here.

“I’m not moving so just cut it off.”

Chris raises his eyebrows, purses his lips even more, tilts his head foreword.

“On a scale of one to one hundred, where’s your pain right now?”

With a straight face Stiles says, “Over nine thousand.” He’s really too tired to smile now, anyway.

“I’m too old for that joke,” Chris says, picks up the scissors. Stiles lets a breathe out of his nose, turns his head to the side so his face doesn’t have to be in such close proximity to Chris’ extremities while Chris cuts at what’s left of his shirt.

“You and Derek, are you two—”

“No. Not again.” Stiles shakes his head, winces. “Never again.”

Chris raises his eyebrows, eyes fixed on where he’s cutting at his sleeve.

“Just because he still thinks of me as a glorified milk bone doesn’t mean I’m going back to him.”

Chris’ eyes move to Stiles’ neck, carefully stays on the side not occupied by the bag of peas, pinches the collar of the shirt and lifts, slides the scissors under, snips.

“It didn’t look like you minded.”

Stiles swats Chris’ hands away, uncaring of the sharp implement in his hands or the pain the movement sends shooting down his arms and shoulders and up his neck, no longer able to bear the careful not-touching-touches.

“It’s not like I, like I asked for it. It’s just the way he is, the way he’s always been.”

Stiles looks away from Chris’ face, the need for confrontation drains from him and he feels tired and sore again.

“I didn’t—I never asked…” Stiles looks down at his knees, his voice comes softer than he wants it to, more confessional than he would let it be if he weren’t too tired to keep faking strong.

“So what if I like being roughed up sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with that and it’s not like. It’s not like I, like I asked for it or something. We never, never sat down and talked. He just… took and I never consented to, I never consented…”

Chris says his name, softly, as if it causes him pain. Stiles looks up and immediately regrets it. Chris’ face is crumpled, there’s a shine to his eyes, his mouth is frowning, jaw clenched.

“No. OK? No.”

"Did he do this to you often?” Chris’ voice is still soft, tentative, like he’s afraid to break Stiles with his words. Stiles shakes his head, mouth open. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not again. Hasn’t he had it enough?

“Your scars,” Chris’ hand raises, Stiles flinches. Chris swallows, stops before he touches Stiles, hand hovering there. “I thought they were just from attacks on the Hale Pack but they weren’t just from _some werewolf_ , were they? They were from _him._ ”

Stiles covers his face with both hands, leans back, away from Chris. He doesn’t care that it hurts, prefers the pain to having to look at Chris.

“No. Just stop, OK? This is not the time to go detective-hunter and figure things out. They're not even that bad. So. Just stop. I don’t want—I don’t want to have this conversation.”

Stiles drops his hands from his face, grabs blindly at Chris, wanting to both pull him in and push him away. He settles for an in-between: pushes with his hands on his shoulders and leans foreword, rests his head against Chris’ stomach. Chris' feet shuffle, his torso leans in to Stiles' hands in an attempt to keep his ground.

“Please just leave it alone. If you ever cared for me at all then just… pack up your sad face and your concern voice and keep them away from me,” Stiles mutters into the soft fabric of Chris’ shirt.

Stiles presses his face into Chris’ stomach harder, inhales as deep as he can, trying to memorize his scent in this moment of weakness. Chris moves, does something Stiles can’t see.

This close, he can feel Chris’ heartbeat against where his nose digs into the soft flesh of his belly. It speeds up; Chris’ hand tentatively touches the top of Stiles’ head, runs lightly over his scalp.

“Of course I care for you, Stiles. You mean, you mean a lot to me.”

Stiles snorts, rubs his nose against Chris’ warm and soft shirt. The bag of peas is slipping.

“Tell that to your wife.”

Chris’ hand leaves Stiles’ skin, moves the frozen bag of peas back onto Stiles’ shoulder.

“Will we ever get that talk?”

“Not now,” Stiles says, clenches his hands into fists.

“So it’s still going to happen?”

“What? Of course. Why would you think we wouldn't?”

“That seems to be how you operate: Break hearts and then completely ignore your ex’s existence until you're forced to interact with them.”

“Ouch. Low blow.”

He feels Chris shrug.

“It’s accurate.”

Stiles concedes the point with a nod, pulls away from Chris, tilts his head back, drops his hands into his lap, and closes his eyes.

“I just need time to think. What happened with Derek was just. I—the way we were necessitated that kind of, of, amputation.”

“And how were you two?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles says, risks dropping the peas to rub his hand over his face. He sits; tense in the silence after his sentence.

 

“Could you hold the peas? I need to get at your shoulder.”

Stiles sighs in relief, grabs the bag, and silently thanks the merciful angel known as Chris.

Stiles fingers the back of frozen peas, watches his fingers turn a little pink from the cold.

He doesn’t want to get into it with Chris. Doesn’t want to have to talk about how things _are_ between him and Derek, doesn’t want to explain how intense it was, how obsessed they were, how much they hurt each other, how much they still (and probably always will) love each other. Stiles just wants to ignore it, bury his feelings about him and Derek deep down and go along like he doesn’t have this festering wound inside of him named Derek Hale Feels.

He knows they’ll probably never get resolution, he doesn’t need to talk it out with Chris to figure out that there are some things that Stiles and Derek did to each other that, in a way, ruined them for anybody else and definitely for each other. Stiles knows how Chris will take it, how he’ll listen to what Stiles says and conclude that Stiles secretly wants to go back to Derek even if he tries to tell him otherwise.

How can he explain how it doesn’t matter? How his love of Derek won’t ever change what Derek wants from him. Or how Derek’s love for him won’t change what he wants from Derek. They may love each other but what they want, what they need, is something Stiles knows that they can’t get from each other.

But… Sometimes he lets himself miss Derek, lets himself grieve what he lost when he gave him up. After every time he does he comes back to himself feeling sick, ashamed of himself. He’s seen the pamphlets the police department has on abuse, he’s read them all front to back, still keeps that card for this abused spouses support group he never went to in his wallet, just in case, just for rainy days when he thinks he can’t any longer.

He misses Derek, he loves Derek, but that isn’t going to change what he did and what he did doesn’t seem able to change how Stiles feels.

It’s this whole endless cycle of self-hate, despondency, and anger that Stiles doubts he’ll ever break. 

"Eventually, we'll need to talk about all of this." 

Stiles nods, yeilding to the resolve in Chris' voice, stares at the way Chris' shirt folds as he maneuvers Stiles. 

"Just... not all at once. I don't think my heart could take it." 

Stiles thinks he feels Chris' hand graze his cheek but he must imagine it. 

"Do you have any of my spare clothes left here?"

Chris stills mid-cut. 

"I can lend you some of my clothes?"

Stiles frowns, looks up at Chris.

"I could have sworn I didn't get all of my clothes out of here. There were a lot and I doubt that Danny could find them all."

Chris looks to his hands, carefully finishes cutting the shirt off of Stiles' body.

"What happened to them?"

Chris swallows, shoulders hunch almost imperceptibly. 

"Allison kind of... had Scott confiscate them all and hid them from me." 

There's this moment where neither of them talk or possibly breath. Stiles can hear the wind moving through the trees outside, some magpie calling to another. 

"... Why did Allison have to 'confiscate' my clothes?"

Chris sets down the scissors on the table, turns quickly away from Stiles.

"I'll just go get you something to put on so you're naked-- Not! So you're not naked." 

Stiles really couldn't help but laugh at that. This pinging, hollow sensation in his chest tries to convince him he shouldn't find anything funny at all about that but he can't help laugh. 

Can't help but feel, for some strange reason, a tiny bit relieved that Stiles isn't the only one having a hard time with the inevitable conclusion of their agreement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: It's impossible for me to concentrate on what I'm writing if it isn't in Times New Roman, Justified, size 12, with the spacing set at single and a half when I'm typing. 
> 
> The fact that Bruce resets all of my blank word documents to Lucida at size 14 with right alignment and single spacing drives me mad. I think he does it on purpose. 
> 
> Bruce is the name of my laptop, btw.  
> Yes, I'm that crazy person.  
> My phone is named Kal El.  
> I broke my DC streak to name my iPad Tony. The Wife gets sad whenever I talk about Tony because he had a dog named Tony that died and he gets really attached to his pets.  
> Now I'm done sharing.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek was probably one of /those/ students.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm totally being inaccurate about what's near Natoma, I bet. I'm sure as shit I'm getting it mixed up with another place but kid!me thought they were the same thing. I think it's on the same river at least.
> 
> I'll maybe flesh out a bit of this later. Maybe.

**Derek should probably be paying attention**. He really should. Territory of any kind caused a lot of disputes. It’s just… Stiles. He smells. Like blood and Argent and triple antibiotic ointment and strange werewolf. It’s distracting. He’s distracting. More than usual. Derek’s skin itches with this stranger’s scent tramping all over him.

He’ll just listen to the recording later.

“Natoma?!”

Derek prides himself on not so much as twitching at Stiles’ outburst.

Carson nods.

“We thought it would be a good location.”

Stiles laughs and Derek’s heart speeds up a little at that noise. Behind Derek, Argent’s heart speeds up a little, too. Derek frowns, reminded of Argent’s presence.

“You want to use the fishery, a hotspot for field trips, children’s events, and joggers for your monthly werewolf kumbaya? What? Did you just Google reserve and Northern California and pick the first link?”

Carson’s eyes slide side to his right where Victoria sits. Derek is still put off by them. There’s just something about them. Stiles’ hands slide on the table, the hoodie he’s wearing is one of the pack’s which does help settle Derek a little, though not enough. He’s still sitting so close that Stiles bumps him every other gesture but he doesn’t mind. He kind of missed it a little. Stiles buries his face in his hands, shakes his head.

“You did, didn’t you?

“Well, we didn—”

Stiles holds up his hands, shakes his head, says, “No, no. I get it. You’re not from around here so you don’t know where the good places are.”

Derek looks between Carson and Victoria, curious. He hadn’t realized that before. Carson’s only been here a week, maybe two and Victoria was only here for, what? A few months before she faked her death.

Carson looks at Stiles, frown in place, face nonplussed. Victoria writes something on the pad of legal paper she brings with her. Derek slides his hand off his lap, brushes his fingers across Stiles’ (Argent’s) pants, rests his hand on his thigh. Stiles’ leg twitches under his palm but he doesn’t remove it.

Carson says, “What would you suggest?”

Stiles’ hands flop on the table, Derek’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Victoria and Carson’s eyes flick to Derek, Carson’s turn back to Stiles; Victoria’s slide down to where Derek’s arm angles towards Stiles. She can’t possibly see where Derek’s hand is but he gets this feeling that she knows anyway.

“Ahhhh, buhhhhhh… Folsom? No. Never mind. Wait! Yeah, Granite Bay. That side is usually less populated, especially at night since there’s no sandy beach.”

Victoria writes something down, Derek squeezes Stiles’ thigh, enjoys how warm and solid he is under Derek’s hand. He sees the corner of Stiles’ mouth twitch.

“We’ll have to check it out before we could agree to that.”

Stiles nods. His phone vibrates again, reminding him of his message. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, keeping it under the table (old school habits die hard), opens the message platform Stiles made them get.

[iSacks: Going to be late tonite. Have work at graveyard.]

Derek takes a moment to appreciate Erica’s sticky fingers and sense of humor, types:

[Derk: What time will you be back]

[iSacks: 3ish. Finstock came by again today.]

Derek grins (inwardly), hooks his tongue around his front teeth.

[Derk: Looking for greenburg]

[iSacks: Well, he wasn’t looking for any books.]

[Derk: I totally caught them making out in front of the HP books last week]

[iSacks: Seriously?!?! Why didn’t you tell me????]

[Derk: Scent outside the store]

[iSacks: Fine. But you’re stilling going to be punished for not telling me.]

[Derk: Please tell me beta how you’re going to punish me]

[iSacks: (; ]

For some reason Derek is a little terrified of that winky face. He exits out of the messenger, looks up. Stiles is standing there, staring at him with a frown.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

Derek sits there, phone cradled in his lap, hears Argent stand from the chair behind him, honestly cannot remember hearing absolutely anything since he read Isaac's first message.

Argent says, “Stiles, I thought we were g—”

Stiles shakes his head, looks down at his cane, thumps it on the ground once.

“I need to talk to Derek. It’s important.”

Derek can hear Victoria’s car start in the driveway, the neighbor’s cat meowing. Argent’s mouth compresses, his hand twitches by his side. Derek looks between the two of them, feels a little like he’s in danger with the way Argent’s eyes don’t seem to  _actually_  move while hardening with, what he’s sure is, a murderous glaze. Stiles grabs the collar of Derek’s jacket, turns away from Argent, and pulls. Derek follows, really never has a choice when Stiles does that.

Maybe if only because it makes him want to shove Stiles against a wall and put his teeth to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever miss someone so much you get a little drunk and spend the night trying to convince your phone to create a machine that subverts the space time continuum just so you can see them laugh?
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah... I miss The Wife.  
> It's been a hard week.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Argent and Stiles talk.  
> No, not that one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breaking my hiatus to bring you a halloween trick.  
> After work I'll post the treat.

**“So, that was everything on the schedule for today.** I’m sure you have a lot to take care of still so how about we call it in? Hm?”

Stiles smiles at Carson and Victoria. He feels like his whole body is vibrating with this strange mix of comfort and unease. Derek’s hand has been just… sitting on his thigh for, like, ten minutes. He isn’t even paying attention to the meeting. Stiles can see his phone in his lap. He wants to shake his hand off and smack Derek in the back of the head, tell him to pay attention but he can’t. He can’t because he can’t treat his alpha like that. Not in front of another pack, no matter their threat level. It doesn’t work that way. So if Derek wants to sit there and act like he doesn’t give a shit so be it, he gets to.

The worst part is that Stiles knows that Chris can see it. Can see the way Derek is just… casually flaunting this… this proprietary attitude over Stiles. Like he has the right to sit there and touch Stiles however he pleases. Like he owns Stiles. The worst part is that Stiles is powerless to stop it. His skin itches.

Victoria puts her notebook and pen in her softcase, slides the strap over her shoulder. Carson stands next to her, eyes trained on her. Stiles thinks it’s a little creepy that Carson can’t even seem to breath unless Victoria lets him. She grips lightly at the strap to her softcase, dark red polish a strangely threatening sheen on her manicured nails. Stiles stops Derek’s iPad recording, closes the lid. Victoria must have told Carson something earlier or learned telepathy because Carson starts, fumbles pushing in his chair and hurries to the door. Normally, he’d follow her out; hands limp at his sides, precisely two steps behind and to the left.

“Stiles, may I have a word?” Her hand twitches where she holds the strap to her case against her shoulder. Victoria’s eyes flick to Derek, then to something behind Stiles (probably Chris) then to Stiles. “In private.”

Stiles gives her his best not-funny face because a private conversation in the vicinity of a werewolf is like asking a mocking bird not to sound like every car alarm in the tricounty area all at once. She smiles at him, tilts her head. Now he knows where Allison gets that from. Stiles puffs air between his lips and teeth, takes a deep breath, and lets it all out.

“Fine, yeah. Sure.” He plants his hands on the table, stands, feels Derek’s hand tighten on his thigh briefly, lightly fist the material of Stiles’ (Chris’) cargo pants, tugs on them once just like he used to do, lets go. It sends pangs of things Stiles doesn’t want to feel through him. The lance of a long-denied longing pierces him. He swallows it down, swallows it like he’s been practicing for months. He isn’t going back there. Never again. Stiles grabs his cane, follows Victoria to the front door…. And stands there.

She stares at him for a few seconds before flexing her mouth once. Victoria’s eyes look him up and down once more, the tendons in her neck tense once. Stiles just wishes she’d talk already. He wants to get home and change out of Chris’ pants (and not masturbate fiercely while in them because his ass is getting hugged pretty damn tight by these pants. They’re a size too small and Stiles has barely enough room in there as it is for his junk).

"I know you and Chris have been… together—”

A flash of panic races through Stiles at Victoria’s words, her soft but slightly uncomfortable face, the way she looked at him like she was measuring his worth, the forced natural face, free of the most probably anger and or indignation that she feels now making sense. Stiles raises his hands, bleats: “No!” To stop further words or surrender, he’s not really sure. There’s something about her that makes Stiles uncomfortable.

“Not anymore. There was,” Stiles scratches the back of his neck, winces at the throb it sends over his arms and shoulders, “A thing but not anymore. It was brief, you know, just a,” Stiles twists his fingers through the belt loop of Chris’ pants, screws his face up. Victoria just stands there, patiently letting Stiles spazz out, “thing but it’s no more. Uh, not that it was much- a thing that was big er anything to really wo—”

“I’ve known Chris for more than twenty years, Stiles. I’ve been through a lot with him so don’t try to lie to me about what I can see so clearly in his face.” She smiles at Stiles that icy smile she used to give Scott. “You two were dating, seriously. I can smell you all over his house, all over him,”

Stiles doesn’t deflate so much as gets punctured by Victoria’s words. Her eyes are fixed on him and just as sharp as her smile. He rolls his lips into his mouth, puffs up his cheeks.

“It wasn’t—we were jus—”

“I could smell him on you at the first meeting. I could smell him so strongly that I thought he might have been in the room. It’s difficult for me to distinguish your scents from each other.”

Stiles sags, sure that the only thing holding him up is his cane. It’s his danger cane. The one that Chris weaponized for him with steel and mountain ash and even a secret switch that makes a shiv poke out.

“Don’t lie to me. You two were together and me coming back broke you two up.”

Victoria’s eyes soften for real now, her hand slides down on her softcase strap, grips the metal adjustment buckle.

“I don’t want that,” She says, looks past Stiles to the dining room where Chris and Derek still sit. “The look on his face when he sees you… I don’t want to be responsible for that look twice. Talk to him. Soon. Let him explain. If you’re still going to leave him after that then at least you’ll have made an informed decision.”

Stiles rolls his lips between his teeth, bites down hard on them, digs his index and middle finger into the band of his (Chris’) pants. They feel so much smaller now. Uncomfortably small. He can feel the rough seam brush against his ass, press into his junk. He really does not get how Chris can walk around in these without underwear like it’s comfortable. (He resolutely ignores memories of Chris in these pants bent over in the backyard deweeding, Chris shirtless in these pants talking about legal modifications to weapons while cooking breakfast.)

“Don’t treat him like I did. He deserves so much better.”

She smiles at him one last time, a compression of stretched lips, and opens her own front door, walks out of it. Stiles needs to get out these clothes, they’re not his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I have maskaphobia- the fear of masks. By far one of the most stupid sounding phobias ever. Couldn't they have used like a latin rout word or something instead?  
> But yeah, I'll totally have a panic attack if one gets too close to my face.
> 
> It's linked to automatonophobia and considered related to the fear of clowns.
> 
> maskaphobia can extend into costumes or any person who puts on something to change how they look or adopt a behavior that is against what one believes to be their natural state.
> 
> Happy Halloween, assholes.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the type of intercourse Stiles had in mind with Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the treat. Ish. I wouldn't call it a treat but Sterek shippers might.  
> Anyway:  
> Warnings for:  
> Dubious Consent (lack of rejection does not equal consent),  
> Physical violence involving sex.  
> These warnings apply for the next chapter as well as possibly the chapter after that.
> 
>  
> 
> http://www.consentissexy.org/

**Stiles doesn’t talk the whole drive** to his house and Derek is disturbed. Both by Stiles’ silence and his scent. Derek can’t stop itching at the stink on Stiles. In the close space of his car it’s almost overpowering. At a stoplight, Derek glances over at Stiles. His legs are spread apart, left knee bent and angled at Derek. His left hand rests across his lap, right cages the outside of his right knee in, what Derek is sure, is a new stress gesture developed after Stiles could no longer bounce his right leg in agitation any longer.  His head is bent, eyes staring at where his left hand lays limp. His lips are compressed together tightly, causing his mouth to pucker out in a familiar way.

Cars drive past where they idle, a small child calls out for daddy, someone plays Bush out of their car stereo behind them. Derek takes a calculated risk.

“What happened to your Wrangler?”

Stiles sighs, turns his head to Derek, mouth pinched as well as compressed, his eyebrows raise, nostrils flair. Derek knows before Stiles even speaks that he’s been successful at breaking the creepy silent spell.

“That beauty of engineering is a modified CJ-5. Which you know. By the way, congratulations on the baiting.”

Derek puts his foot on the accelerator, silent. Stiles takes in a deep breath.

“I hit a deer. It was pretty bad so my Jeep is in the shop.”

That explained the blood smell and the viscera. Not so much the other werewolf. Derek turns on his left indicator light, watches a brown SUV drive by in the opposite direction, turns on to Stiles’ street.

“The only person I was with that wasn’t pack was the chick who towed my Jeep and my friend, Josh.”

Derek parks in front of Stiles’ house. The driveway is empty but he has never felt comfortable parking in other people’s driveways.

“Yes, I did sleep with him but I didn’t know he was a werewolf.”

Derek can feel it rising again. That urge, he feels violently empty. The car door swings back onto Derek’s leg with the force of Derek opening it. If it weren’t for his werewolf abilities, Derek’s leg would be very bruised and he’d have stumbled walking around his car. All of the noises of Stiles’ neighborhood blur together into one indistinct buzzing noise. He opens the passenger door to Stiles’ very unamused face. He used to find it hilarious when Derek tripped over himself for him.

Derek holds his hand out, intending to help Stiles out of the car. Stiles swats him away and nearly stabs Derek’s foot with his cane. Derek backs away, hands up, and watches Stiles struggle getting up on his own. He feels useless, as he always does around Stiles.

“Even if you didn’t know, he should have known better than to make… _friends_ with you.”

Stiles lets out a gust of air, starts across his lawn. Derek picks up a little behind him, watching the way he swings his torso back and forth to avoid putting weight on his right leg. Grandma CC used to do that before she got her knee replaced.

“He wasn’t some stranger, Derek. I’ve known him for years.”

Derek stops, brain shorting out for a second.

“The werewolf was someone you already knew?”

Stiles pulls his keys out of his pocket, rolls them around in his hand.

“Yeah, he went to high school with me.  Was a year ahead of me, I think.”

He puts his key into the bolt, turns it. Derek takes the few steps it takes to put him directly behind him. Stiles inserts his key into the knob.

“I ran into him right after I hit the deer. We caught up while I waited for the tow truck. Then he asked me back to his place and, you know, we banged.”

Derek reaches around Stiles and turns the knob for him. He can feel Stiles stiffen where his chest brushed against him.

 

The door rattles when Derek shuts it behind them. Stiles turns around, mouth open, frown heavy and Derek grabs his throat, pulls him in. Stiles winces, his arms flailing up instinctively. He’d forgotten about the bruise he left on Stiles earlier. Remembering doesn’t help him stop. Stiles’ lips are just as moist and thick as he remembers and when Derek sets his teeth to them, Stiles moans just like he used to.

He doesn’t think about it, about anything at all. It just happens and he’s dragged along with it. His tongue is in Stiles’ mouth, his hands rub over the tight material over Stiles’ ass. Derek can feel Stiles’ hands fisting the material of Derek’s shirt. His teeth graze Derek’s tongue and Derek’s body flashes hot. Stiles’ pulse quickens exponentially under Derek’s palm. He rocks his hips against Stiles’, insinuates one of his legs between his knees. He hears Stiles hiss, feels him take a step back. Derek can’t help gripping Stiles’ ass with both his hands as hard as he can, grinding his hips against him. Stiles makes this whining moan, body going limp against Derek. He digs his fingers into the soft underside of Stiles’ ass, rocks them together, thrusts his tongue into Stiles’ open mouth ready, laps up every noise he makes.

 

He lets go of Stiles’ ass with one hand, brigs it forward to tug open Stiles’ pants, the other one firmly fingers about where Stiles’ hole would be, rocks his hips into Stiles without conscious thought.

Stiles growls (something that always thrills Derek) and bats Derek’s hand away from his fly. Derek was just going to tear them anyway. Derek pulls back, grins, watches Stiles unbutton his pants, pull down the fly. He, he’s not wearing any underwear. Blood roars through Derek’s ears and suddenly Stiles is shoved against the front door, held there by Derek’s hands: one on his belly, one low on his chest. Derek sinks to his knees, tugs at Stiles’ pants with his teeth. His mouth and nose floods with the scents of Chris Argent. His teeth elongate, puncture the material of the pants. Stiles pushes on Derek’s hand until he releases them. Derek watches Stiles’ hands shake as he pulls his pants out of Derek’ way.

The flesh of Stiles’ hip is pale. It’s been so long since Derek last marked it and yet he still expected it to be there: purple and crescent shaped, maybe a little green on the inside, fading lines of his blunt teeth. His scratches are still there a little, though. Derek’s mouth waters. White little curved lines that angle down towards Stiles’ groin, showing off the fleshy curve of Stiles’ flank. Derek licks them, feels Stiles shudder against his tongue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh. Every chapter I post feels like a mistake even if it's been planned since the beginning like this one. Terrible.  
> http://www.consentissexy.org/


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is fucked. That's a pun. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually quite a miracle, you peeps don't even know. Usually when I take a break from a story I don't pick it back up for months and then even if I do the post rate goes down drastically. Like maybe once a month or less. Usually less. Much less.  
> It's a Halloween miracle.

**“Fffffuuuuck ah.”** His head hits the front door in a worrying parody of earlier, one hand grips the door knob so hard the cold metal digs into his palm, the other hand digs nails into the back of Derek’s head. Pain radiates out from Stiles’ right hip. His body attempts to bend itself in half to shield itself from further pain. Derek’s teeth dig in just a little further; his head shakes slightly back and forth, causes stripes of pain to shoot through Stiles’ belly. His hands hold Stiles against the door. Which is a good thing, really, because Stiles would collapse without them. His tongue circles the taught flesh between his teeth and, _shit,_ he sucks on it wetly. Stiles’ body doesn’t move, pinned as he is, trained as he is.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be talking to Chris, should be saying no and telling Derek that they need to talk about how Victoria is turning locals, increasing her numbers, obviously has some secret agenda that isn’t going to go well for the pack. He doesn’t even know if he wants to be doing this, considering the repercussions it could have on him, on his friends, the pack, on Chris. _Chris!_ Damnit. He promised him he’d speak to him, that they’d talk. He wants to. He knows he does want that, at least. Still not so sure about Derek’s hands on his stomach, his mouth tracing bitten flesh. It’s hard to think with Derek touching him, has always been hard to think when Derek touches him. Derek drags his hands down Stiles’ body, the friction mixing up Stiles’ thoughts. Without thinking, he helps Derek take off his (Chris’) pants.

Stiles feels stupid like this: naked from the waist down, still wearing the boots Lydia gave him. Stiles doesn’t even remember when he dropped his cane. Derek trails an arc of small, sharp bites across Stiles’ belly, hands sliding up Stiles’ legs, nails lightly scraping along the way.

His elbows hit the door when he flinches away from Derek when his nails scratch over Stiles’ knee. He doesn’t like it when people touch his knee. Not since it got mangled. He can barely stand it when people look at it. He’s just gotten to the point where he lets Scott touch his right leg.

Derek drags his teeth over Stiles’ belly button, sends sparks of pressure tugging between Stiles’ belly button and his dick, palms Stiles’ soft dick. His hand is wet with sweat and Stiles’ winces at the uncomfortable feeling of cold sweat, warm palm, and pinching teeth. Nevertheless, his dick hardens under Derek’s touch, the same as it always does when Derek touches him. Stiles closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, tries not to remember the way Chris had looked at him when he’d mentioned his scars in that soft voice, like he was fragile, easily broken. He’d touched Stiles like every contact was risky. Stiles digs his nails into the thin flesh behind Derek’s ears and tugs on Derek’s ears until he rises, crushes his lips and teeth against Stiles’. Derek fists the hoodie Stiles wears and shoves Stiles back against the door. 

Stiles drags his nails down Derek’s neck from behind his ears, sucks Derek’s tongue into his mouth. Derek huffs a breath out his nose, steps back and swings Stiles around.

He stumbles, falls, lands on the stairs. Stiles sits there, panting, watches Derek rifle through his discarded pants, tries not to concentrate on the pain he’s in, especially his knee and neck.

Derek shoots a feral grin at Stiles that causes him to swallow reflexively. He watches Derek pull out the foil packet of lube he finds, starts crawling backwards up the stairs when Derek walks towards him, packet between his teeth, hands unzipping his jeans.

Derek lowers himself to his knees on the step between Stiles’ knees, jeans hanging open, dick peeking out. Stiles feels queasy when he rips open the packet, shivers when Derek rubs two wet fingers against his asshole even though they’re not cold.

Stiles hasn’t been fucked in a long time, doesn’t know how well he could take Derek like this. Derek’s not the carefullest when it comes to preparation. He’s thicker than Chris and even then Stiles tends to be more the fucker than the fuckee. It’s been so long since he was last with Derek- with someone who fucked like Derek, felt like Derek, was Derek.

When Derek presses two fingers in Stiles’ hand hits the banister in his rush to have something to hold on to. Fuck, even just his fingers. It’s like some perverse part of Stiles is being partly filled. Even just his fingers. Derek locks his eyes onto Stiles’, thrusts his fingers into Stiles in smooth pulsing motions.

Something washes through Stiles in time to the movement of Derek’s fingers. It’s weirdly tranquil, quiet, in his head, in the house. Derek’s only points of contact are his fingers inside of Stiles and his mouth when he lowers it down onto Stiles’, licks wet lines across his hips, his lower belly. He swipes his wet tongue just at the base of Stiles’ dick and it, ridiculously, reminds Stiles of Chris. Stiles’ body rocks, instinctively follows Derek’s movements. The stairs dig into his back, his legs stretch as far apart as he can get them.

Stiles’ mind keeps shuttering between blank and buzzing like he’s trying to stop himself from thinking. 

Derek pulls his fingers out and Stiles stares at the ceiling, wonders what Chris is making himself for lunch. Then Derek’s cock is pushing into Stiles and he feels the scrape of his zipper against his thigh, the scratch of his stubble on Stiles’ neck where Derek nuzzles him. His back arches and he plants his left foot on a higher stair, grabs the railing with his left hand and keeps his right leg spread as far away from Derek as he can get it. Stiles wonders if Derek put a condom on, hopes he has, knows he probably didn’t.

Derek’s hands support him, one by Stiles’ side, and one above Stiles’ shoulder. There’s a frown on his face when he pulls away from Stiles’ neck, eyebrows furrowed. He’s breathing heavily through his nose and his eyes are shut. Stiles bets Derek’s back looks wonderful like this: the muscles in his back rolling and flexing. He knows what it looks like, feels like. He used to run his hands over the rise and fall of those muscles, marvel at the strength and grace in them, the contained power. They once fucked against a bathroom wall and Stiles had spent the whole time watching Derek’s back.

He kisses Stiles, all teeth and tongue, pace picking up until he’s slapping into Stiles so hard Stiles has to brace his right arm on a stair above his head to stop hitting his head on it. Stiles dick bounces against him and the edge of a stair digs into his lower back so hard he’s positive he’s going to have a bruise.

Stiles would be fooling himself if he thought he wouldn’t walk away from this without at least a few bruises. At least.

Derek thrusts into Stiles so violently that he lifts of the stair and lands hard back on it. Stiles hisses, throws his head back, hits it on the stair, bites his lip. Totally just bruised his tailbone. Fuck.

Stiles doesn’t realize his eyes are shut until Derek bites into the meat of his shoulder and they snap open. Shit. It hurts. Whenever Derek manages to haphazardly place a new bite between his staccato thrusts, Stiles gasps pitifully, hands tight on the banister and stair, nails digging in as if that could anchor him.

His whole body is sore.

Derek thrusts into Stiles hard, grinds himself ruthlessly into Stiles, keeps his ass high off the stairs, save for where his shoulders dig into them a painful counterpoint to where his hips swivel brutally. His dick circles inside Stiles, passing over his prostrate in intense strokes every rotation. Stiles’ body tries to curl around itself in shaking convulsions. He knows he’s making noises but he couldn’t say what they were, all he can hear is the rushing of blood in his hears and Derek’s grunts.

He sets his teeth into Derek’s shoulders, drags his nails down his clothed back, the sensations too much for him. The zipper on Derek’s jeans scrape against the soft skin of his ass.

Stiles is struck by the dissonance between the two of them: his mostly nude self, hoodie pushed up under his armpits, pants abandoned on the welcome mat and it’s not like he even had an actual shirt on to begin with- just this zippered thing Derek had shoved at him, and Derek’s still fully clothed self. He even still has on his old leather jacket. Stiles can smell it whenever he leans over Stiles, bending him almost in half, to bite at his neck and shoulders.

If Derek would just… touch Stiles’ dick right now he’d probably –definitely- come. That’s all he needs. One touch and he’d be done. And he wants it. Wants to feel the release –the relief- of coming. Wants to feel Derek’s dick still pumping inside of him as Stiles finishes, wants to feel the way Derek fucks him through it, not stopping, just fucking Stiles’ exhausted body until he’s done with it. He _wants_ that, wants to be used by him, wants to be treated like Derek’s private little fuck-hole. Shit, he wants. He just wants- needs- Chris— To come. He needs to come.

Stiles bites down on Derek’s shoulder a little harder, tries to stifle the whine his throat lets out, shoves his hands under Derek’s clothes and digs his nails into the flesh over his kidneys, wraps his left leg around him. His right knee hurts so badly right now.

Stiles is inches from coming and all he can think about is the stupid off-white and blue vase that sits on the dining room table. He wonders if Chris threw it when Stiles ran off with Derek not even an hour ago. He could see it in his mind’s eye. The way Chris’ chest would heave before he picked it up, how it would explode against the wall when it hit, how Chris would start walking over to it before it even hit, lean against the wall, hands splayed shoulder width apart and tense, feet crunching the glass briefly, before stooping down to pick it up.

He’s so close; he can feel the pressure of it building in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was drafting the final chapter in my head on the drive home today and I almost cried. Me. I didn't even cry when they shot the cute dog at the end of Ol' Yeller. That's how emotional the ending is for me.
> 
> I don't think any of you will survive.
> 
> Keep in mind that I said emotional and not sad.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yup, still having sex. It'll be over soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings from 36 still apply. 
> 
> Also: sleepy and rushing- will proof read tomorrow or something.

**Derek doesn’t like it** when Stiles bites him. He’s never liked it when Stiles bites. It just makes it harder for Derek to control himself. That urge to turn Stiles, to break his skin with Derek’s sharp teeth, make Stiles bleed and turn, tie Stiles to him more firmly than he ever could as a human. Derek hooks one arm around Stiles, his nails dig into Stiles’ side, break the skin in small tally marks to satisfy his need. It doesn’t work all the way but it’s enough. Stiles’ hips twitch every time Derek’s nails track through the skin of his side. Derek can feel the muscles in Stiles’ lower back flex in time with each twitch.

He puts his weight onto his legs, leans back away from Stiles, uses both hands to hold up Stiles’ lower half, watches Stiles fall away from where he had been curled around him. Derek uses his hands, fingers digging in to Stiles’ fleshy ass, to move him. Derek watches himself disappear inside of Stiles. He’ll never get over how amazing that looks, feels, just is.

Stiles’ head hits a step and Derek watches him fling his arm above his head, braces it again on the stairs. He uses that to push himself harder on to Derek’s dick, rolls his hips, mouth open, staring down his own body. Derek randomly thrusts harder into Stiles every so often just to hear that surprised gasp that Stiles always lets out when Derek hits that spot inside of him. It’s addicting.

The way Stiles gasps, involuntarily clenches around Derek, slides a little off of him with a flinch of his hips. Derek loves it. Missed it.

It was only a matter of time before Derek couldn’t help but fuck into Stiles harder, hitting that spot every time. Derek knows exactly how to angle himself, how hard and how often to hit before Stiles is constantly moaning out Derek’s favorite three words: “Oh,” “fuck” and “Derek” Sometimes there’s a me thrown in there after fuck. The frequency of which increases with how fast Derek fucks him. All three (or four) words are fine by Derek. He could go the rest of his life hearing nothing else but them.

Stiles wraps his hand around himself, head thrown back, reduced to nasal moans. Derek can tell Stiles is close, has been close for a while yet. He drops Stiles’ ass back onto the step, fucks up into him in rolling movements. Stiles’ mouth drops open into low growling noises that build with Derek’s every thrust into shouts interspersed with these “ah” sounds every time Derek hits the spot.

Derek pulls Stiles hand away, pins it to the step, uses that hand to balance himself, then wraps his other around Stiles. He grips tight, tighter, jerks him off.

He wants to be the only reason Stiles comes. Wants to feel Stiles twitch and jerk under him, clench around him as he comes because of Derek. He wants to come in Stiles, on Stiles, make him stink with the scents of Derek, wants to cover Stiles so completely in himself that he smothers out the ever-present and pungent scents of Chris Argent. He wants Stiles. Wants him for his own.

Between clenched teeth, he hisses out, “Mine” and grinds himself into Stiles as vigorously as he can, stroking his dick with the lopsided hard strokes that he knows Stiles likes.

Stiles’ eyes widen as far as they’ll go and he bites out a breathless, “Ffffuuuuu-huh,” as he comes. Derek strokes him through it, fucks him through it. Stiles sighs, body relaxing around Derek. He makes quiet grunting “ah” sounds every time Derek is fully seated inside of him. He’s so close.

Stiles is loose and wet around him finally, the scent of his come rich in the air. Derek loves fucking him like this. Loves pushing into him when Stiles is relaxed and soft, muscles untensed and welcoming. Stiles bites his lip and Derek digs his fingers into the soft flesh of Stiles’ ass, other hand still pinning Stiles’ now slack arm to the stairs. His left foot rests on the back of Derek’s calve, right leg drooping. Derek is forced to grab his right leg and hold it up so it doesn’t obstruct his way.

Stiles groans, frowning, lip popping out of his mouth wet and red. Derek leans over, bites into Stiles’ lip, and grinds his teeth into the thick flesh of his lip. Stiles gasps, his body opening up even more for Derek.

Derek thrusts once, twice more, and comes, sucking on Stiles’ lip. He doesn’t think of the sounds he overheard Sunday night. Of Stiles and Argent fucking and how different he had sounded with Argent than with him. He doesn’t think of the small secret smile Isaac sported all through dinner last night. Doesn’t think of the winky emoticon he sent him.

How Isaac’s hand had felt gripping his hip firmly and warding off flirty girls. Isaac’s laugh as they’d wrestled in the storeroom. The look on his face when Derek had pinned him briefly. Doesn’t think how he’s wondered all day what those green boxers taste like.

Derek buries his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck and breaths in his calming scent, listens to Stiles’ familiar heart, his uneven breathing.

He wants Stiles. Has always wanted Stiles. Will always want Stiles. Love Stiles. He loves Stiles.

Loves the way he somehow makes his frowns look like smiles, loves the way he talks rapidly about anything that comes to mind, loves how fearless he is even though he’s so fragile. Loves so much about Stiles.

Wants him so much.

Wants him so bad.

He doesn’t think he ever wants to stop fucking Stiles, being with Stiles. No one else knows him the way Stiles does or will ever know him the way Stiles does. Derek can feel Stiles’ body slowly start to tense back up, his naturally agitated disposition causing his body to always remain in a state of tension. Except when he’s being fucked. Derek loves the way Stiles relaxes when he’s being fucked.

He wants Stiles to always be loose, relaxed. Always wants to be where he is: inside him surrounded by him, unable to smell anything but Stiles and sweat and come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how KSDK makes the news person talk at the anchor instead of the camera but she still does the big weather person gestures except she stabs her hands at his chest.  
> I'd love to see her murder him.  
> Then shout  
> NINETY PERCENT CHANCE OF BLOOD LETTING TODAY MOTHERFUCKERS WITH A HIGH CHANCE OF DEATH! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  
> And then wrap herself up in the green screen and flap at the camera person.
> 
> That'd be awesome.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets fucked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I can't get over what I'm going to do to Stiles. Poor dude.

**Derek lowers Stiles’ right leg slowly** and Stiles winces, the circulation returns in stinging tingles. He flexes his toes, curls his foot. It just makes it worse. Derek presses his face into Stiles’ shoulder, breathing heavy through his nose, his hands bracket Stiles’ sides and every time Stiles takes a deep breath, he can feel Derek’s arms brush his ribs. Derek rubs his scruff against Stiles’ neck, licks his ear. Stiles makes a face and snorts, brings his hand up to tug at Derek’s ears.

“Stop it.”

Stiles doesn’t have to look to know that Derek is smiling. Derek takes a deep breath through his nose, turns his head and Stiles fists his hair, starts pulling on it before he even starts.

“No, don’t you even—”

Derek motorboats Stiles’ ear. Stiles snorts out a laugh involuntarily.

“Ugh. Noooo. Get your slobbery tongue off of meeee.”

He huffs against Stiles’ ear and Stiles nudges him with his knee. His hips are getting tired of being spread open like this. Derek flexes in response, moves a little closer instead of farther away like Stiles was trying to get him to do. Stiles sighs, knows it’s going to be useless trying to make Derek move right now, nudges him again anyway. Derek just flexes in again.

Stiles stares at the ceiling and scratches his fingers through Derek’s hair lightly, down the back of his neck, listens to Derek’s even breathing.

His body is a white noise of pain, his mind buzzes in emptiness, the stairs dig into him more with every second Derek lays above him. He’s strangely calm considering how bad of an idea it was to sleep with Derek, the possible threat that Victoria poses (to more than just his sex life), the state of his personal affairs, and the fact that his dad could walk in on him with no pants on and his ex on top of him.

Stiles shifts, tries to find a more comfortable way to lay… on the stairs… with Derek on top of him. Derek hums, voice dropping and Stiles stills, recognizes the tone he uses. That’s when he feels it.

“Dude. Seriously?”

Derek’s only response is to grind out, “Yes,” and thrust his hips. Stiles groans, purposely hits his head on a stair. He can feel Derek growing inside him, hardening and thickening all over again.

“Derrrek,” Stiles whines, tugs on Derek’s ear, “At least get me on bed a before—” Derek thrusts his dick into Stiles’ ass and Stiles hisses. His hole is already sore and throbs in time with his heartbeat. He doesn’t know if he can take Derek again. Not when – _shit-_ he feels so much bigger now than he already is.

“What if I want to have you here again? Or maybe against the wall?”

Derek presses his teeth to Stiles’ ear and pushes into him slowly. Stiles groans.

“Please, a bed. Please, please.”

He already feels so sore he doesn’t think he could take another round on the stairs. Or any other hard surface. Or just again in general. Derek licks Stiles’ ear, wraps his arms around him, synchronizes his push inward with when he lifts Stiles up.

For a second, Stiles thinks that Derek’s grip will fail and he’ll fall down the stairs. His heart speeds, panic surges through him and he jerks, eyes wide. It doesn't happen but the fear is still there. 

“Show off,” Stiles huffs, wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and clenches his thighs against him, still a little afraid he’ll fall.

Using, what Stiles is sure is preternatural grace; Derek holds Stiles to him with one hand and hikes up his jeans with the other. Every little movement causes Derek’s dick to move inside of Stiles.

He presses his forehead into Derek’s shoulder and digs his fingers into the leather of his still jacketed back. Derek starts up the stairs.

“Ah! My pants! Grab my pants!” Stiles waves one hand in the direction of Chris’ pants, stares at them where they sit, crumpled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, legs bent oddly. The sight of them unsettles Stiles. He can see where the material has torn from Derek’s teeth.

Derek pauses midstep, readjusts his grip on Stiles.

“Do you seriously care about your pants right now,” he asks, hikes Stiles up a little for emphasis. Stiles has no choice but to hiss and writhe a little at the reminder that Derek’s dick is still inside him. As if he needed one with the way it unmercifully stretches his poor abused hole. Stiles shakes his head.

“No. No, I guess not.”

Stiles can _hear_ the smirk on Derek’s face when he says, “Thought not.”

He just buries his face into the soft leather of Derek’s jacket and braces himself for the feel of Derek’s dick moving inside of him with every step.

Stiles ends up letting out quiet grunts whenever the angle is just right. He bets Derek loves the sounds he’s making. Stiles thinks he might start shaking if he has to feel Derek’s dick just inside of him like this for much longer. It’s too intimate, too familiar.

He remembers nights spent awake talking, kissing, touching, Derek moving hard and big inside of him. He remembers how good it had felt to spend hours feeling fucked out, Derek wrapped around him, cock filling Stiles as full as he could go. Sitting in Derek’s lap, pretending to concentrate of a show or a book, letting Derek use him like some sort of sex doll sperm bank. He remembers waking up some mornings and not wanting to move, knowing that as soon as he did he’d feel it dripping down his thighs, tacky and flaking and cold on his ass. No amount of soap or hot water ever made him feel less greasy down there.

Stiles back hits his door, his door hits the wall (another dent in his wall no doubt), and Derek runs his teeth down Stiles’ neck. His fingers tickle up Stiles’ sides, drag his hoodie up. With his hips, he pins Stiles to the door and peels his hoodie off.

Stiles’ arms flail until his hand hits the top of the door. He grips it tight when Derek kisses him, the edge of the wood digs into his fingers. Derek rolls his hips, slides his hands up Stiles’ arms, and wraps them around Stiles’, fucks up into him in smooth waves. Stiles whimpers.

Derek licks into Stiles’ mouth and squeezes his hands. Stiles tightens his grip on the door, flexes his arms, tries to raise himself off of Derek’s dick. He’s almost free of it, can feel the corona of his dick. His strength gives out.

Shaking and groaning, he doesn’t so much lower himself back down as fall, impaling himself on Derek’s dick. It’s too much. He’s too big and rough. Stiles just doesn’t have the capacity for Derek’s marathon fucks anymore.

Derek lets go of his hands, grips Stiles’ hips and fucks up into him. Stiles is just along for the ride at this point. His dick soft and a little tender, sends little jolts of pain through him whenever it bounces against his skin. He lets out involuntary grunts and gasps whenever Derek slams back into him, both curses and applauds werewolf refractory periods.

When Derek comes again, he sets his teeth into Stiles’ chest.

Stiles’ head hits the door with a worrying crack and he hisses, throbs, fingers dig into the door. He slumps against Derek’ wraps his tired arms around his shoulders and floats in Zen levels of pain as Derek carries him to bed.

Derek lays Stiles down slowly, kisses his forehead, pushes until he’s lying on his side. Stiles doesn’t even bother trying to roll off his right side, he’s just so tired.

He feels oddly empty without Derek in him, feels cold and strangely alone. Stiles wraps his arms around himself and ignores the sounds of Derek moving around behind him.

In the distance, he can hear kids shouting. A car drives past the house and the bed dips.

Derek pulls Stiles back until he’s pressed against Derek’s front. His chest is hot and firm against Stiles’ shoulders.

This is familiar: Derek’s arms around him, body aching, the house silent, and Stiles wants to be somewhere else but lacks the ability to leave.

 

He’s half asleep, Derek’s hands moving soothingly all over his body, mouth rubbing against Stiles’ hair, when Derek pushes back into him again, cooling lube and semen easing the way.

Stiles groans pitifully, lets Derek roll him onto his stomach, bites his pillow, and fists the sheets. Against his will, his dick hardens between his belly and the mattress. His eyes water. Derek worries bite marks into Stiles’ shoulders and back, hands caging Stiles, and fucks him until the harsh friction of the bed sheet against his dick and Derek’s cock moving inside his tender hole become too much.

He comes with a strangled scream, falls asleep like that. With Derek’s teeth in his shoulder and his body rocking with the force of Derek’s thrusts.

His last thought is that his dad would be so disappointed in him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These few chapters have been ridiculously hard for me to write.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afterglow. More like afterdepress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long but wow were those last few chapters hella triggering especially what with the elections. Talk about stress.

**Derek kisses the back of Stiles’ neck** and pulls out, runs his hands down Stiles’ sides, kneels next to him. He snorts when he notices that Stiles is still wearing his boots. Derek tugs them off carefully. He rolls off the bed, boots in hand, walks across the room, sets them by the chair like he knows Stiles prefers.

When he turns, he’s caught by the strange familiarity of this all: Stiles sprawled out in bed, house silent, and some threat both urgent and distant.

Though there’s something strangely unsetting about the sameness of it all.

Stiles has always been Derek’s good luck charm in a way. Everything successful and right in his life is because of Stiles. Except…

Derek crosses his arms, frown heavy on his face. He knows that his obsession with Stiles isn’t exactly healthy, knows that his fixation isn’t exactly the best thing. He loves him but… He’s spent so many nights with his face in Isaac’s hair, whispering all of these things he had never been able to admit on his own. He’d never been able to talk about his family with Stiles. It was just too hard, too painful. But Isaac. Isaac had made it feel good, had encouraged it, made Derek _want_ to share them with him.

It wasn’t that Isaac made it easy, no. It was still hard, it was just… he didn’t even know how to explain how Isaac makes him want to share, want to show him those parts of himself that he tries to hide.

Derek leans against the wall. He hasn’t stopped loving Stiles, doesn’t even know if it’s possible or if he’d want to but Stiles left him and, as Isaac made sure he understood, it was for a good reason. Derek fucked up. He lost Stiles because of his own actions and he knows he deserved it for what he did.

If it weren’t for Isaac, Derek wouldn’t have his job, would probably be living in an abandoned building again, would still be following Stiles around everywhere he could. It was Isaac that got him out of it the first time. It was Isaac who showed him what he was doing was wrong. If it weren’t for Isaac… if it weren’t for Isaac, Derek probably would have killed Stiles… instead of just horribly maim— _Stiles’ knee._

Fuck, Derek didn’t even think. He sinks down the wall, eyes fixed on Stiles’ knee. Stiles shifts in his sleep, turns onto his side. His knee looks puffy to Derek, swollen. The scars that track down his thigh and converge on his knee stand out sharp against Stiles’ light blue bed sheets.

He did that. In no uncertain terms, that was him. His hands that tore his flesh.

He can’t.

Stiles.

He can’t do this.

Again.

He scored his Stiles with scratches. Arms, back, legs. He traced his pain out on Stiles’ flesh.

The late afternoon light paints Stiles in gold colors. He looks beautiful like this; the sun brushes Stiles’ skin in yellows as if some being on high dusted his skin in precious metals. In some places the veins of it run deep, turning murky and brown. It’s smeared under his jaw, his ribs, his eyes. The smudges turn Stiles’ otherwise bright skin dim, adds strange undertones to Stiles that Derek doesn’t want to think about.

He doesn’t want to think about the scratches and bruises. It’s been _four days_ since he first saw Stiles again, was in the same room as him, spoke to him, and he looks… Derek doesn’t even know how he could describe what situation Stiles would have had to be in to create the type of battering he’s taken since then.

And it’s all because of Derek.  Those are his nail marks, the shape of his mouth in those bruises. He just… he did this all. Every bite. Every scratch. Every scar. Belongs to him.

He doesn’t want to do this again, go through this again not—

Not with Isaac.

He doesn’t want to hurt Isaac. Not the way he hurt Stiles. Still hurts Stiles.

Derek hits his head against the wall and watches Stiles turn over again in his sleep, mutter something about rabid Chihuahuas and Argent.

Derek runs his hand through his hair, takes a deep breath. The room smells like sex and blood and Stiles. He had missed him so much. He _misses_ having Stiles in his life. Misses him more than he can say.

Derek grips Stiles’ desk in one hand, plants the other against the wall, pulls himself up, and walks over to Stiles.

It’s funny how he doesn’t feel naked like this: nude in Stiles’ bedroom.

He had felt naked, completely bare, in front of Isaac fully clothed this morning but here… it’s not the same. Then again, it’s never the same with Stiles. He is in all things unique, precious but not Derek’s anymore. Stiles and Chris Argent.

He remembers how they had sat next to each other on Sunday morning, bodies not so much angled towards each other so much as illustrating an instinctual orientation around each other.

Derek lightly touches Stiles’ cheek. It was as if they were the centers of some binary solar system: Chris the dark star to Stiles’ brightness. Somehow, Derek thinks as he slides into bed, that analogy doesn’t feel quite right.

Stiles grumbles in his sleep. Derek pulls the blankets over them, wraps his arms around Stiles.

“Mm, Chrisswarm,” Stiles says, rubs his face against Derek’s bicep, stills. Derek knows the precise moment that Stiles realizes he’s not Chris Argent, knows exactly when he opens his eyes without looking.

“I feel a little insulted,” Derek says, tries to grin.

“Definitely not Chris.”

“You think?”

Stiles nods.

“Definitely. Too much muscle.”

Derek pulls his head back.

“Are you saying I’m too muscular?”

He kisses Stiles’ forehead. Stiles presses his forearms against Derek’s chest, absently scratches his nails against him.

“You’re not Chris,” Stiles says quietly, a note of pain in his voice. Derek should have known from the beginning. He should have known back then, when he was sneaking in to watch over Stiles at the hospital what was going to happen. He should have realized then what was happening to him and Stiles.

He hadn’t even thought twice about how it might’ve been weird to see Chris there so much, hadn’t wondered why he started calling him Argent instead of Chris like he used to.

He hadn’t thought it weird for Chris to keep vigil over Stiles. The normalcy of it—

It had angered Derek, now that he thinks about it. At the time he had thought… had thought that he just didn’t like seeing Argent near Stiles but that wasn’t it. He had hated the way that he had simply _expected_ Argent to be there. He had hated how Stiles and Argents were friends of a sort, allies. Hated the way the two of them got along. Hated the way Chris and Stiles always seemed to have something to talk about no matter how ridiculous and stupid it seemed to Derek. He had hated their easy camaraderie.

Derek’s arms tighten around Stiles; he rubs his lips against the fuzz of Stiles’ hair.

“No, I’m really not and you’re not Isaac.”

Stiles shifts in his arms, turns his head up to him. That’s what it comes down to for them, isn’t it? Stiles isn’t Isaac and Derek isn’t Chris.

Derek stares at the wall, arms tight around Stiles. He feels like he’s clinging to a life raft in a turbulent sea.

“Derek—”

“I kissed him yesterday.”

It’s silent in the house, a dog barks two blocks away, and a car drives by.

“That’s. Do you—”

“I don’t know. I think so. I’m just-“

Stiles runs his hands down Derek’s chest in comforting patterns.

“When did you know with Chris?”

Derek feels strangely desperately like he needs to know. Stiles takes a deep breath, holds it in.

“I can’t tell you how or when I knew. It wasn’t just one moment or anything. It didn’t like wash over me all of a sudden. I mean, it wasn’t a surprise and there wasn’t some epiphany of feels, you know?”

Stiles kisses the bicep of the arm under his head.

“It wasn’t not there and then there. It… took time,” he mumbles, eyes staring blankly at Derek’s arm. He runs his hands soothingly down Stiles’ side.

“But I can tell you when I let myself think about it.”

Stiles rolls away from Derek, looks at the ceiling, hands limp on his chest.

“It was, it was when I was walking to my car with my friend on Friday and she asked me what I was doing for break and I said I was coming home and she knew- and I knew- that I meant Chris’ place. Not my dad’s, but Chris’. It’s… home- with him. And I, _shit,_ I just miss him so much.”

Derek leans over and kisses Stiles because he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know any other way to comfort Stiles. They both know what he means by that.

Stiles reaches over and tugs on Derek’s arms, shifts and rolls until he can bury his face against Derek’s chest again. One of Stiles’ hands dig fingers lightly into the hollow above Derek’s collarbone, the other reaches around Derek to dig fingers into his shoulder blade.

He wraps his arms around Stiles as tightly as he can and rubs his face against his hair. Derek stumbles over something to say, anything to say. He panics.

“I hid behind a stack of boxes yesterday because Isaac’s underwear was showing.”

Stiles snorts, laughs in shakes against Derek.

“I’m not sure if I should be concerned or think that adorable.”

Derek frowns, nips at Stiles’ ear.

“Hey, stalker-wolf, don’t get defensive with me. I’m not the one getting hysterical over a pair of boxers.

He flicks Stiles’ head, wonders how Stiles knows what type of underwear Isaac wears, says, “I wasn’t hysterical.”

“No, you were just briefly incapacitated because of clothing.”

Derek just frowns harder. Stiles shifts in his arms.

“I bet you wanted to know what they tasted like,” he whispers, drags his bottom row of teeth up the underside of Derek’s peck. The muscle twitches involuntarily and Derek’s ears heat up at the feel of Stiles’ lips dragging across his chest, his teeth grazing his skin.

Stiles laughs when he rolls them over, drags his hands up his arms. Derek pins them to the pillow.

Looking down at Stiles like this, smiling with his teeth, Derek is overwhelmed. Stiles curls his fingers, scratches at Derek’s hands and Derek can’t help the way his body rolls down on to Stiles, can’t help loving the groan Stiles lets out.

He bends down to nuzzle Stiles’ neck, lap at the strain in his tendons. He can hear precisely when Stiles’ heart starts beating faster. Derek nuzzles Stiles’ ear just to hear him laugh. The sound of it makes his heart pound.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not so sure about this chapter on a narrative standpoint. Whether it says what I want it to say. Might change it later.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday will never end. But you really don't want me to get to the end of Wednesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm funny. Really, I do. It's not a good thing.

**Something cold and hard hits Stiles’ ear** and he knows real fear and Bee Gees lyrics. Stiles flails and kicks out, trying to destroy this demon beast that keeps telling him that he can tell by the way it looks it’s a woman’s man.

“Make it stop.” The tenor of Derek’s voice is plaintive.

Stiles grabs his phone and stabs his fingers at it until the beast quiets. Derek sighs in relief and shoves his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck, grips his biceps just like he used to. Stiles raises his free hand to the back of Derek’s neck, scratches at it in apology. Stiles remembers how much Derek wasn’t a morning person. His grip on Stiles’ arms makes it harder to put the phone to his ear but whatever.

Derek’s knee slides between Stiles’ thigh and Stiles is suddenly glad that he isn’t in bed with Chris because he is far too sleepy and wrecked to cope with Chris’ favorite game when Stiles is on the phone. Stiles misses Chris and his evil distract Stiles games.

“Hey, Danny, what’s up? What’s… crackalackin?”

It’s silent on the line for a moment. Stiles absently scratches down Derek’s back, runs his fingers over the dip in Derek’s spine.

“You are so white.”

Stiles grins sleepily, turns a little to nuzzle into the mess he’d made of Derek’s hair. It’s still a little crunchy form the product he uses. Derek’s hands tighten on Stiles’ arms.

“Everyone is throwing me a pity party and I want you to come. You up for going?”

Derek licks Stiles’ neck once and Stiles brings his left hand up to scratch at the soft skin behind Derek’s ear to comfort him.

He takes the moment to listen to his body, hums to let Danny know he’s still there.

His knee pulses and grinds in pain and the rest of him is, what’s now a pleasant thrum of pain, that will later be a full body press of stinging pain while his asshole will probably feel like the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. That’s what prescription grade narcotics are for.

“As long as you don’t mind a bitter bar fly in your pity party.”

He could hear Danny’s grin through the phone. It was a cute grin. Stiles knew them well.

“We got to meet our quotas somehow.”

“You’re already over your not-white quota.”

“That’s why we need you. We’re never going to get our own TV show without you.”

“How could I say no with so much at stake?”

Danny humphs in amusement.

“Great! I’ll get… Isaac? To pick you up innnn an hour?”

Derek tenses at the mention of Isaac. Stiles fists Derek’s hair lightly, tugs on it a little. Derek shifts his hips away but he relaxes anyway so Stiles doesn’t worry.

“Yeah, see you soon, Danny boy.”

“For how many years am I going to have to tell you not to call me that before you listen?”

“At least one more, Miss Swan.”

“You’re not Will Turner.”

“And you’re not a very good Elizabeth. Ciao!”

Stiles hands up before Danny can respond. It’s quiet again but Stiles is officially awake. He stares at his ceiling and tries to make sense of the random shapes in it, listens to Derek’s breathing. Once every minute or so, Derek takes one big heave of a breath. He’s too still. Stiles knows what’s bothering Derek, it’s bothering him, too.

“You should come with,” Stiles says, twirls a lock of Derek’s hair around his index finger. Derek tenses back up. Stiles tugs on the lock of hair in his hand. Derek grunts, nips at Stiles’ neck.

“If you don’t say yes to me I’ll just get Isaac to get you to come.”

Derek huffs and Stiles knows he’s asking himself why this is his life.

“Fine. But I’m using your shower.”

Stiles kisses the top of his head, scrubs Derek’s back.

“Come on then. It takes me like forty five minutes to get ready now.”

Derek lets out an annoying whine and presses his face harder into Stiles’ neck. Stiles wonders how Derek can even breathe like that.

Stiles gets his hands under Derek, spreads his fingers across his chest, angles his left knee so it presses against the outside of Derek’s leg and… pushes.

Derek lets out a high-pitched grunt and scrabbles for something to hold on to. He takes the blanket with him on his journey to the floor.

“I promise you revenge,” Derek says, throws the blanket back onto the bed. Stiles throws a pillow at him.

“Go shower, you dirty, dirty doggy.”

“So much revenge.”

Derek slaps his hand onto the bed and pulls himself up. He glares at Stiles but his hair sticking up all over the place ruins whatever effectiveness the look may have had. Stiles just smiles and shoos Derek. He frowns harder at Stiles but that just makes Stiles grin harder at his adorably grouchy face. His lips scrunch up even more and it just makes him look constipated.

“Oh my werewolfy gods just shower now before I lose my shit over how cute you are sometimes.”

Derek wisely flees. Stiles rolls onto his back with a grin, scratches his stomach. Soon he’ll have to get up but that isn’t right now. He takes in a deep breath, lets it out.

His knee throbs so hard it feels like that time some dude at a bar punched him right in the soft tissue. OK. Guess that means he has to get up now.

Stiles levers himself off the bed and staggers around, looking for his cane.

Oh, right. That’s down stairs. With his pants and pills. Shit. He stands in the middle of his room, leaning heavily on his left leg, and looks around. He has literal stacks of boxes full of his stuff that Danny and Scott helped him get from Chris’ place. _Boxes_. _Stacks of boxes._ There’s a long squat one leaning against the biggest stack in front of his closet. He’s fairly sure he knows what’s in there.

Stiles takes a deep breath and steps over to it. Oh. Ow. Ow. Fucking _Ow._ Breath through it, he just has to keep breathing. It’s only six steps, maybe, but Stiles still has to lean against the wall once he makes it there.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t have to drive anywhere because he is fucking done with sobriety for the day.

He props himself up against the wall with his shoulder, he pries the box open and… yes, brace and spare canes. He grabs one of the plain wood canes and uses it to hook the chair from his desk and drag it over. Stile possibly plops down on the chair too fast, forgetting about his abused ass in his rush to get off his leg.

He winces at the stab of pain and the gross feel of wet ass against faux leather. Now he can add, “wash chair” to his To-Do list. He can put it under “Find out Victoria’s evil plot,” and “Talk to Chris.”

Stiles grabs his leg brace and grimaces, tries to concentrate on nothing but his leg and putting on his brace. It doesn’t help. He still thinks about Chris.

They need to talk and not just about Victoria but other stuff, too. Like how Stiles kind of wants to be his boyfriend. Officially. No more of this ignore-the-problem-until-you-should-file-for-change-of-address stuff. They need to have an adult talk with key words like, “Feelings,” and “Long Term Goals.”

Carefully, he stands again, grips the cane tight, and forces himself to keep breathing. It still hurts but it’s easier to walk now. He turns to his bedroom door and half limps, half heaves himself out of the room.

Soon, he’ll talk to Chris soon. First he has to take a shower because spending the next however long covered in Derek’s spit and come does not sound all that fun.

Then he has to help cheer up Danny, tell Scott about all of the stuff that’s been going on because Stiles would probably be a terrible person without Scott there to get outraged at Stiles’ life-decisions and he needs to figure out what Victoria is up to and then maybe, if Chris forgives him for being a horrid excuse for a person, talk to Chris.

Stiles stands at the top of the stairs and looks down. There at the bottom lie Chris’ pants. The way Derek threw them had made them land stretched out like half an X on a treasure map. Stiles takes a deep breathe and grips his cane tight, takes the first step slowly.

He hopes his dad doesn’t come home soon, catch him naked and bruised with come leaking out of his ass and Derek in the shower. That’d be terrible. Terrible.

Halfway down he can see the gouges Derek made in Chris’ pants. The teeth marks and small tears disturb Stiles.

His heart flutters like it used to when he’d taken too much adderall and he sways in place. If it weren’t for his tight grip, he’s sure he would have fallen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why must I hate everything I write? And wow, you don't know it yet but Wednesday is going to be Suuuuuuuuuuuuper long.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek thinks. It's generally a bad idea for him to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's short. Yes, not much happens. No, I'm not sorry.

**He’s dreaming** about tucking small, purple flowers into Isaac’s hair, smiling down at him while they lay in a clearing surrounded by dark trees and gilded light. Isaac smiles and rolls them over. Petals fall on Derek’s face and Isaac is laughing. Derek’s fingers graze the material of Isaac’s shirt when it changes.

The trees turn birch, the sunlight refracts, morphs, becomes cold and furious as the moon. Isaac’s face turns, fur coming over the sides of his face, brow getting heavier, teeth sharpening. He growls and Derek knows fear as his own body refuses to change to meet the danger he sees, refuses to accept it as danger. His nails stay dull, his teeth blunt. Isaac barks out an angry roar, Derek hears the ground tear under Isaac’s nails, his heart races.

The wind screeches through the trees, sounds something like betrayal. Derek whimpers and Isaac lets out a quieter growl, leans his face in close.

Derek shudders at the feel of Isaac’s face pressed against his skin, sharp teeth bared, brow furrowed. He growls softly against Derek’s neck. Slowly opens his mouth around the sound of it, long teeth sliding against Derek’s skin. Isaac’s sharp teeth dig in a little, his growl back channels and Derek moans, turns his head as far to the side as he can. Isaac’s knee shoves his legs apart, his teeth slide down Derek’s neck.

He watches Isaac’s fingers drag tracts through the soil; listens to his own hear beat so fast that it worries him.

Isaac roars in Derek’s ear. It deafens him to all else.

“Get up!”

Derek lurches upright, fingers twisted almost painfully in the sheets. Derek is blinded, everything is dark. There’s a ripping noise.

“Dude, really? Those sheets are new.”

Derek looks down at his hands, forces his nails to shorten, says, “Sorry.”

Outside a car with a borderline squeaky break parks in front of the house. Isaac. Derek automatically starts listening to Isaac’s heart as he shoves his feet into his shoes. He hears Stiles take a deep breathe and walk away from where he had stood in the doorway.

He still smells like Stiles and sex. Lots of sex. Derek rests his head in his hands and stares down at his untied shoes.

Isaac is going to be so mad at him. For relapsing on the whole Stiles thing and for cheating.

Was it cheating if they’d only kissed once and never talked about it? They did live together, sleep in the same bed, and he’s pretty sure he’s head over heals for Isaac. He does still love Stiles. Does that bother Isaac? Is Isaac even into him the way he’s into Isaac? Does Isaac just want Derek for sex?

Isaac’s heart beats harder and Derek keeps staring at his shoelaces.

“Derek?” Stiles’ voice. “What’s taking you so long?”

He grips his shoelaces and shouts, “On my way,” to avoid yelling about coming while surrounded by the scents of him and Stiles and so much sex. He ties his shoes (or more like knots them in the vague shape of a bow), picks his jacket up, and walks out of Stiles’ sex box of a room as quick as he can.

Isaac is still sitting in his car. Why is he just sitting there? Does he not want to see him? Maybe he’s too angry to talk to Derek.

Stiles is standing by the front door, cane in one hand, blue handicap flag and keys in the other. Derek stands a few steps from him. Stiles stares. Isaac’s car idles outside, his heartbeat back to normal. Stiles had buzzed his hair and shaved while Derek was napping. He looks younger, skinnier, more fragile without the shadow of a beard and the hints of actual hair.

Stiles hooks his cane through a belt loop, raises his now free hand to his face, rubs at his newly clean-shaven face.

This, more than anything, strikes Derek. This isn’t the boy he knew, isn’t the teenager he fell in love with. This is the beginning of a man the boy he knew is going to grow in to. Stiles’ eyes narrow, his hand falls away.

“Hey,” Stiles says softly, licks his lips. Stiles has a bruised scrape above his eyebrow. Derek doesn’t even remember how Stiles got that. Even with Stiles’ long sleeves and the tall collar of his dress shirt, he can see bruises and scratches that he left.

Isaac is waiting outside and Stiles stands before Derek, evidence that, even if Isaac forgives him and wants to be with him, Derek doesn’t deserve him. Or anyone, to be honest.

“Hey, big guy.”

Stiles holds his arms out, frown firm on his concerned face.

“C’mere.”

Derek shakes his head.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Stiles takes in a breath through his nose, lets it out.

“A hug is a bad idea?”

Derek edges around Stiles, mouth compressed. Stiles sighs and drops his arms.

“Fine. Hugs are bad ideas.”

Derek twitches a smile at Stiles and darts out the door, digging his keys out of his pocket. Isaac is parked in the Stilinski driveway, shoulders hunched, leaning close to his wheel. Derek stops in the middle of the lawn, keys jingling in his hand, heart beating a little too fast. Isaac looks over at Derek, jaw clenched in an unhappy moue. Derek pivots between taking another step to his car and going to Isaac. He hears Stiles’ front door shut, the jingle of his keys, and the slide of the bolt, Isaac’s heart trying to keep steady.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, turns away from Isaac in his beat up white sedan and walks at a clip to his car. Isaac stops breathing briefly, his heart skips, there’s a thudding noise that solidifies his desire to not look. By now, Stiles has made it to Isaac’s car.

Derek unlocks his car door and all but throws himself in, shoving the key into the ignition before his door has finished shutting.

He’s tempted to just go home. To curl up on the couch under every blanket he can get his hands on and fall asleep in a hot cocoon of his own failings. But this is for Danny. This is to show him that he isn’t alone and that he’s loved and accepted and Derek really wouldn’t want be anywhere else than where his pack needs him.

This is not going to be a fun night.


	43. Yes, it's still fucking Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what happens when you put the guy you just fucked and the guy you are sorta dating in a car together? Nothing good for you, that's for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Bond, James Bond, I've risen from the dead to deliver unto you yet another installment of a harrowing tale involving too much sex, violence, and some guns.

**Stiles is acutely aware that he smells** spunky and not like ‘what a spunky attitude that young man has’ but more like porn star being picked up at the end of a marathon shoot. He’s pretty sure, at least. He knows to a human nose that he smells fine but Isaac’s werewolfy one? Not so much.

But he doesn’t say anything. Stiles doesn’t really expect him to. He wishes he would.

Isaac shifts in his seat as they come to a stop at the light.

“I didn’t know until after.”

Stiles really needs to learn a better way of easing into conversations.

“What’s there to know?”

Isaac looks ahead and nowhere else. His jaw ticks. Stiles scratches the underside of his can handle. He takes a deep breath. He really can’t blame Isaac. Stiles did the same to Chris.

In some ways, him and Derek really deserve each other.

“Derek didn’t tell me that he was maybe in love with you until after we’d, ah… banged. Though I probably should have figured something was up from the beginning.”

The car jerks.

“In love with me?” Isaac’s voice gets a little squeaky when he says, “he told you he was in love with me?”

Stiles licks his lips, shifts in his seat, and feels distinctly uncomfortable.

“Pretty much.”

They turn onto Baseline. Stiles gnaws on his lip, jerks his head in a nod. He feels hollow inside, strange things he doesn’t want to name panging around inside him. He doesn’t think of Chris, doesn’t think about what he feels and what it means.

“’Pretty much’? Did he say it or not?”

Isaac changes lanes and it’s Stiles’ turn to look somewhere that isn’t Isaac. Stiles thinks of Chris. Of the way he had stood tense with a hard look on his face, mouth twisted and nose flared in a way that gave his nose a hook-like appearance.

“Yes. Sort of. It was in Derek-speak.”

“But what did he say?”

Stiles sighs, tries not to think of Chris’ careful blank face as he touched Stiles’ body to clean the scratches Derek had made earlier. The first of many.

“He told me he kissed you, that he wanted to know what your underwear tasted like—which, wow, does that sound weird if you don’t know about Derek’s fetish for biting clothes—and then he asked me when I knew that I… with Chris.”

Stiles sucks on his upper lip and stares down at his boots, wiggles his toes. He feels peculiar for his reticence with saying it. Stiles never had a problem with it before. It just seems… so much bigger now than it had before. Like for some reason Stiles thinks it matters more with Chris than it ever had before.

For minutes the only sounds are the tread of tires as they travel, the slight squeak of the breaks and the slide of Isaac’s hands on the wheel. Stiles wishes the radio were on, that he’d had the forethought to just get a ride from Derek. At least then their silence wouldn’t have been this sort of awkward.

Stiles could do with some of Derek’s bitchy sass.

Isaac sighs and Stiles sneaks a look at him, stealing himself for Isaac’s special brand of retribution. Which usually involves bodily harm and or sulky cheek. Both. Usually both. Though Stiles will always hold a special place in his heart for the smack-down Isaac gave Scott last summer when he dented the door of his car. Isaac purses his lips, mouth puckered. He flicks on his turn signal and looks over his left shoulder, away from Stiles.

“I guess I won’t be mad at you. You didn’t know about… the situation.”

Stiles crows inwardly, glad not to have the wrath of the Sulk (as Erica so aptly calls him when he’s pissed).

“Thanks, Isaac I—”

“Not for myself, anyway. I don’t approve of you stepping out on Mister Argent like this. I get that you’re upset about this stuff with Victoria but I know for a fact that you haven’t tried to talk to him.”

Stiles deflates to the side, hits his head on the window. The road slides by quickly, a red car speeds past them on the right.

“I’m going tomorrow. If he still wants—” Stiles takes an awkward breath in the hopes of inhaling the ‘me’ that almost escaped. “Wants to talk to me.”

He glues his eyes to the side view mirror. The window reflects in it, his face partially lost by the obscuring light reflecting off of it, Derek’s car a dark shiny blotch three spaces back.

“Erica says he’s been pining like a ‘lovesick wolverine.’”

Stiles snorts and shifts in his seat and hopes that covers up the shot of adrenaline through his chest at the idea of Chris pining. Isaac turns on his right indicator, merges into the exit lane.

“Colorful wording aside, I don’t think she’s far off.”

Stiles shakes his head against the window and jiggles the window crank. He doesn’t want to think about Chris right now, doesn’t want to remember how old and tired Chris had looked the few times Stiles had seen him this week, doesn’t want to imagine Chris laying in bed alone, sheets pushed down to his hips with his T-shirt loose at the neck, mouth still a little red and purple. He wants to know who punched him, wants to lightly cage Chris’ mouth and kiss where his lip has split, wants to be in bed with him, pressed against his side, using him to prop his right leg on, running his fingers over Chris’ sensitive spots just to see him shiver drowsily as he falls asleep.

Stiles is just so tired.

He doesn’t doubt Isaac’s words, and doesn’t think Erica is wrong (though Chris would make a terrible wolverine). Stiles just doesn’t want to think on it. He’s just going to get really drunk tonight and laugh while his friends dance without him. It’s a good thing his Jeep is in the shop.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Good. You two’re good together.”

Stiles doesn’t answer. The silence fills with the sounds of cars running and Stiles’ steady breathing. Stiles wonders how long he can pretend he doesn’t want to think about Chris before his brain snaps from the sheer weight of denial. Speaking of denial… Nope! No, he was so not going there right now. He is too sober for his melodramatic brain’s own good. A shell station pops up on the side of the road and Stiles is struck with a sudden need for a pack of smokes.

“Stop at the gas station?”

Isaac puts on the turn signal and they pull into the station. Stiles can’t get the image of Chris taking a drag out of his mind. The way his hand had boxed the cigarette, the tilt of his head, the sound of the smoke leaving his lungs, the weight of his fingers intertwined with Stiles’. To think the first time they ever held hands was the eve of their union’s collapse. The car shakes when Isaac puts it in park slightly too soon. The motion jolts his leg and seesaws pain through Stiles’ bones. He breathes in deep and pops the lock, fingers the door open, feels queasy. Stiles has his cane on the ground, right foot gingerly planted, left hand gripping the top of the car when it hits him.

“Isaac?”

His head tilts up from his phone, eyebrows rising. Stiles licks his lip and glances around them before saying, “Will you promise me something?”

Isaac looks weary and Stiles doesn’t blame him, doesn’t blame him at all.

The smell of gasoline and car exhaust permeates Stiles’ nose. Chris is one of those people who enjoy the smell. Derek hates it and so does Scott, Erica, and Boyd. Isaac has yet to express an opinion on it.

Isaac’s bottom lip slides out when Stiles doesn’t continue immediately.

“What?”

Stiles licks his lips and debates how best to word this.

“Don’t make the same mistakes that I did. With Derek- don’t—” lose yourself the way I did? Let him lie to you? Hide things from you? Treat you like you’re weak and worthless because you’re not, you’re so not and you never were and you deserve better than the trash that Derek and I are.

Isaac nods, sets down his phone, looks at his hands where they fidget with the upholstery.

“Will you—will you help me? Can I come to you for help?”

Stiles takes a shaky breath, feels as if his insides are rattling around with nothing but scars and half-healed gashes. Tin cans in a trash bin.

“Yeah, anytime you need me. Just. Don’t let him get away with this. With, uh, what we did.”

Isaac says nothing, only tenses his face into an angry moue that promises Stiles that he won’t, that he’ll do better than Stiles, that he is better than Stiles.

Stiles nods and closes the car door, steps up the curb and heads inside. There was something else, something he was going to tell Isaac but he’s lost it to the acidic sweet smell of gasoline and the angry hurt on Isaac’s face. He just really needs a smoke, a drink, and an unrecomended dose of painkillers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS MY FIRST ACT ON MY BIRTHDAY, THIS COLD AS FUCK AND MISERABLE DAY, THE TWELTH OF DECEMBER. Doyoulovemeyet? Doyou? Doyou?
> 
>  I'm going to go find a liquor store and drink it. Then find a cigarette factory and smoke it to the ground.  
> ((In reality I'm just going to go sit on my windowsill with a tumbler of Fireball and pretend a cigarette is a birthday candle.)) 
> 
> Happy birthday, little orphan, the people who loved you are dead.
> 
>  
> 
> After Thursday, we should be back to regular posting.
> 
> (I'm actually moderately disappointed that no one loves my fic enough to make fanart of it.)  
> The above is an obvious hint.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek hates clubs... and people... but mostly he hates himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't I promise we'd go back to regular posting? Who loves their author!god?

**The music in the club is deafening** and if Derek had to worry about hearing loss, he’d already be up shit creak. Actually, he thinks to himself as he tries to push his way through the mass of people so thick it reminds him of the time his class went to the hatchery in third grade, he kind of already is up shit creak, if the way Isaac refuses to talk to him, come near him, or listen to him is any indication.

They’ve been here two hours now and Isaac has eluded him the entire time. Derek’s beginning to suspect that the rest of the pack is assisting him.

He really wouldn’t put it past them. They always gang up on him.

The place smells ripe with pabst and BO. Derek hates it. With so many scents and sounds, Derek feels lost and struck dumb from overstimulation. There are so many rhythms: people’s feet on the floor, the beat of the music, dozens on dozens of heartbeats and the shift and slide of glass. At least four people are wearing Lara’s favorite perfume; too many to count are wearing Stiles’ deodorant. He’s had four men whose scent was reminiscent of uncle Pete’s hit on him and someone threw up in their purse ten minutes ago.

Derek can barely make out Stiles’ voice shouting at Boyd to pick him up a slippery nipple from the bar. He thinks he hears Isaac laugh from somewhere to his left so he turns (the floor makes the same sickening noises as a movie theater’s and Derek doesn’t want to think on why).

Beyond the drunken undulating mass of desperation, Derek can see Isaac’s mass of hair and, what he thinks is, Danny’s head. He pushes past a group of girls who are all dancing together with their arms up in the air and shouting. One of them has his mom’s hair. And…

There he is. Dancing next to Danny, one hand stretched against Danny’s side, small smile stretching his thick lips pleasantly. Derek hurts, a strange ache blossoming in his stomach. He wishes Isaac smiled more, wishes that he was smiling at Derek, wishes Isaac’s hand was gripping his hips while they danced together, giving him that slow secretive grin that Derek had seen for the first time last night.

He’d been so stupid. To sleep with Stiles, to deny his feelings for so long. He could have had those smiles and those hands on him before now if he wasn’t such a stupid fucking coward.

He’s within touching distance now; Danny’s eyes fasten on him and harden, an anger that Derek deserves spreading across his face. His hands grip Isaac’s sides and he moves in closer, a protective stance overtakes his posture and Derek is a piece of shit. His own pack is, yet again, protecting a member of the pack from him because he’s a toxic piece of garbage that ruins everyone he loves.

He almost gives up, turns around and leaves, but... then he remembers the feel of Isaac’s arms draped over his shoulders, his sleep-warmed body pressed against Derek’s back, his lips running up and down his neck as he grumbles out a barely intelligible ‘morning’ and Derek wants. Wants to wake up every morning with Isaac laying on him, warm and soft in sleep, wants to run his hands in soothing paths down Isaac’s back when he nightmares, wants to fall asleep every night to the steady beat of Isaac’s heart and wake with Isaac covering him like the world’s best blanket.

Derek has been stupid. So fucking stupid, pretending he didn’t want Isaac, pretending his feelings weren’t something other than friendly. He reaches his hand out and tugs on the hem of Isaac’s shirt. He stops dancing and so does Danny. They share a look that Derek can only see half of, fingers twisted in the bottom of Isaac’s shirt, feeling like a lost and confused child, music and bodies making such a thunderous noise that Derek gets throbs of headaches.

Danny’s eyebrows raise, Isaac’s head nods, and they step apart, Isaac turning to face Derek. He lets go of Isaac’s shirt and shifts on his feet, not wanting to look at the unhappy pucker to Isaac’s mouth.

Bodies bump against Derek and he feels like a fool.

Isaac says something that’s lost in the cacophony of the club. Derek steps closer, shouts, “Can we go someplace quieter? To talk,” over the din. Isaac stands still for a moment, a considering look ripples over his face, and Derek’s afraid. That he messed up too much for Isaac to forgive him, want him, still feel anything for him. His heart stutters, suddenly sure he blew any chance he could have possibly had with Isaac. He looks away, not wanting to watch as Isaac breaks his heart like he deserves.

 

Isaac’s hand wraps around his wrist and Derek feels shot through with undeserved hope. He leads Derek through the club to a quieter hallway that leads to the bathrooms.

Tucked in the back corner as far away from the repugnant scent of sick and piss that emanates from the toilets, Isaac drops Derek’s wrist and he feels bereft without the comforting touch of Isaac’s hand on him, soothing the sensory assault of the club.

They stand there, awkwardly silent for a minute. Derek is at a loss for how to start this conversation. He stares at a flier for a drag show and Isaac stares at him, arms crossed over his chest. Derek can see the anger in his face out of the corner of his eye.

“Well?”

Isaac’s tone is harsh and expectant and Derek feels like an unforgivable oaf.

“I’m sorry I—I wasn’t thinking and I was afraid. Stiles, he—”

“No. You don’t get to blame any of this on Stiles. It’s not his fault you used him.”

Derek’s hands tense at his sides, useless and stiff. Isaac is right, as always. Derek shifts back, angles his body sideways and looks down at his shoes.

“I panicked and acted like a jerk and I’m sorry.”

He looks up at Isaac, regret covering him like a painful sheet of ice.

“I’m sorry. I hurt you and I, I hurt Stiles and,” Derek’s voice stutters, his lungs feel both too full and deflated. His hands twitch uselessly at his sides and he doesn’t know what to do with the hurt and anger on Isaac’s face. Doesn’t know how to fix this and go back to Tuesday night, sitting next to Isaac on the couch watching Clerks., pressed against his side and familiar warmth coursing through his chest whenever Isaac laughs at one of Derek’s jokes.

“I don’t know if this can be fixed. How do I know you won’t do this again? What can you possibly say that could make me feel safe?”

He looks away from Derek, his voice soft and unsure. The expression on Isaac’s face is one that Derek hasn’t seen. Not because of him, not for a long time, not since he asked him years ago if needed a hand out of that grave. He feels like shit and he knows he should.

“I won’t do it again. Please Isaac, give me a chance.”

Isaac’s mouth twitches and his eyebrows lower. He takes a half step closer to Derek.

“How do I know you won’t? How do I know you won’t cheat on me?”

Derek flinches away from Isaac’s words. He sinks, posture slumped, looks down at Isaac’s shoes.

“How do I know you won’t run out and sleep with the first thing you see the next time you get scared or panic or whatever?”

Derek takes a big fortifying breath and looks up, meets Isaac’s eyes as best he can, forces as much conviction as he can muster in what he says next. The beat of music and the press of unpleasant scents push to the back of his mind.

“I won’t. Trust me, I won’t.”

Isaac scoffs and turns away from Derek, looks down the hall.

“I don’t know if I can, Derek. I don’t _know_ if I can trust you.”

Derek’s heart tips and tumbles down into his stomach. The acid eats its way through and he feels burnt. Tentatively, he reaches out his hand, lightly wraps his fingers around Isaac’s. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Fuck, he just doesn’t. He steps closer to Isaac, watches his head whip around. Derek raises his and Isaac’s hand to his chest, presses them flat over his heart.

“Give me a chance to prove to you that you can.”

Isaac’s glare melts a little; the sharp unhappy turns of his mouth soften. Even if they don’t disappear entirely. Derek’s heart thuds in his chest and all he can hear on repeat through his head is _please please please please please please._

Slowly, as if some part of Isaac knows he’s going to regret it, Isaac turns to face Derek full on. His hand slides against Derek’s chest. Derek drops his hand from Isaac’s. He holds his breath. Isaac’s hand moves down his chest, over his stomach, grips the top of his hip.

He steps in close to Derek and stoops, pressing his mouth to the top of Derek’s shoulder. Derek breaths out all the pent up air in his lungs and wraps his arms around Isaac’s shoulders.

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, you jerk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all spoiled me for comments. I think I haven't done a good job when I don't get many. Haha. Look what you all have turned me into?!
> 
>  
> 
> Also you all are going to /hate/ me come the next two chapters. Haha. So terrible.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is drunk. Stiles is drunk and has a phone. Stiles is drunk and lonely. But he has a phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, these next few [or more] chapters [probably more] are going to challenge me severely as a writer. I just do not know if I have skill enough to write this. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also: yay, long chapter.

**Stiles is at the point in his drunkscapades** where he feels like he has one foot on the merry-go-round of poor life decisions and is telling himself that he is going to regret everything tomorrow but doesn’t care enough to stop. Erica and Allison are making out on everyone’s coats while Scott watches with that dopey look on his face that he always gets around his girlfriends. Stiles is pickled in enough semi-legal intoxicants that his tolerance for it is lower than normal. Much lower.

All he can think about is Chris and how hurt he’s going to be when Stiles tells him he slept with Derek of all people.

“Never again, my ass,” Stiles says, stands, sways. His ass throbs in protest of existence. The club is loud and full of people that Stiles cares nothing for. He can see Boyd and Danny dancing from here. Stiles spares a moment to be amused at how awkward Boyd looks. His phase as a bicurious hunk now over long enough that he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands or Danny’s dancing.

Stiles tugs his jacket out from under Erica and Allison. They fall over into Scott and giggle. Allison turns, cups Scott’s face, and kisses him slowly. It reminds Stiles of Chris. He grabs his cane and flees about the time that Erica nudges aside the collar on Allison’s shirt to suck kisses on her neck.

Stiles has got to get out of here. Someplace quiet (ish) where he can smoke in peace and binge on his angst without seeming too much like a desperate gay cripple in a gay club that’s resigned himself to watching all of his friends bump and grind together while he nurses bitter drink after bitter drink.

He pushes his way through the crowd. It’s slow going and painful. He nearly falls twice before Lydia spots him. She and Jackson are dancing together and they look cute and fucking happy and Stiles hates everything.

Lydia takes one look at him, her strawberry lips pursed, before releasing Jackson to start shoving Stiles’ fellow inebriants out of his way. Grudgingly, Jackson assists her, as ever, looking like the thundercloud to her sunshine.

Though Stiles knows that Jackson is more like a pitbull: looks frightening… to those who have never experienced how sweet and caring they are.

Stiles totters his way behind them, relying heavily on his cane. He’s pretty sure his knee and ass and every scrape and bruise and bite mark he has are throbbing along with the beat of the overly-loud club music but the alcohol and painkillers in his system are making a concerted effort to dull it all. Too bad they don’t take away the emotional pain. He is such a loser.

When they’ve reached the side door, Stiles smiles in thanks at Lydia and holds out his free arm. She gives him a quick hug and straightens his jacket for him. He flails a wave at Jackson (who gives him his bitchiest smile) before Lydia drags him backs out into the mass of writhing peoples.

 

The night air is chilly and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief when he leans against the wall several feet from the door. He rummages through his pockets with difficulty until he finds his lighter and smokes. It takes longer than it should to light up.

He thinks of Chris sitting on the planter box, cigarette dangling in his hand. He takes a bigger drag than he means to and chokes, coughs, tears coming to his eyes. He wipes them away, cigarette still in hand.

As most things are in Stiles’ life, this proves to be a mistake. His eyes burn and he quadruple guesses every life decision that has taken him to this: choking with watery eyes like a noob with his first smoke.

Sometimes (most of the time) Stiles hates his life.

A minute passes and Stiles takes two more drags before a possibly terrible idea hits him. He limps forward until he can lean against the railing and hooks his cane on it to free his hand up. Stiles pulls out his phone and unlocks it, taking another drag on his cigarette.

Briefly, he laments that there are no photos of him and Chris (except for one of Chris sitting next to Stiles’ hospital bed that Erica took and he’s not dragging that out now, not ever) before tapping on the button that brings up his texts.

Stiles takes another hit, ashes over the side of the railing, and starts rereading the last conversation Chris and him had via text.

He misses him. Pathetically misses him. It hasn’t been that long and Stiles isn’t in some sappy romance movie. He shouldn’t miss him. They’ve gone far longer without seeing or hearing from each other before and Stiles is pathetic but he just—just really wants to hear Chris’ voice. He needs to. Some sign of normalcy, some reassurance that everything will be right at some point even, if that point isn’t this one.

Stiles scrolls to the top of the conversations, hits contact info, hovers his thumb over the call button. Is he really drunk enough for this? The way the world sways answers that for him. It’s just a call. A hey-how-you-doing-you-still-want-me-because-my-world-is-darker-without-your-angelic-presence-in-it.

Stiles inhales more smoke, hits call, holds his breath. It’s late enough that Chris might not answer anyway and all Stiles will have accomplished is listening to his voice mail greeting. (He’s fooling himself, Chris always answers.) But maybe not this time, he thinks as it rings for the third time. He lets his breath out and feels the dizziness rush in.

“Stiles? Is something wrong?”

Chris’ voice sounds concerned and wonderful and Stiles never wants to stop hearing it. He brings his cigarette to his lips and inhales.

“Stiles?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, smoke purling around his words, “but no more than usual. Just me. I’m all—” Stiles sighs and flicks the butt of his cigarette. He laughs at himself for being this disgusting.

“You weren’t in bed, were you?”

Images if Chris lying alone in bed assault Stiles’ mind.

“I am but I wasn’t sleeping. Are you OK?”

And Chris sounds worried, genuinely worried, about Stiles. The melancholy rushes through him and bitters his joy at Chris’ voice.

“Am I ever?” It comes out more flat than it was meant to. “That’s not—I called cause I wanted,” (to hear your voice) “to see if I, if I could come by tomorrow.”

Stiles hears movement, the sound of a drawer opening and shutting.

“Does this mean you’re willing to let me explain now?”

Stiles takes a drag on his cigarette, hears the flick of a lighter through his phone’s speaker.

“Yeah, I, I’m sorry. I should have let you explain earlier. I was just so—” He hears a windy exhale over the phone. “Are you smoking in bed?”

There’s a pause, Stiles flicks his cigarette into a puddle five feet below him.

“Yes.”

“That’s so hot. Shit, I’d like to see that.

He can imagine it now: Chris shirtless, blankets a mess around him, smoke curling around his head like a Lucifer’s halo. “Why did you never smoke around me?

“Usually you were sleeping and I didn’t know if smoke bothered you.”

Whatever song the club is playing gets louder, the baseline deeper.

“It does the opposite of bother me. In fact, I’d like nothing more than to be able to watch you smoke in bed. Maybe set up a chair at the foot so I could be at my leisure about it.”

Stiles grips the wrought iron of the railing tightly, looks down at the cracked concrete below, and tries not to imagine it too vividly. His brain is rushing with so many things and he is definitely not drunk enough to masturbate behind a club yet.

“One hand wrapped around your cigarette, other one on your cock, _shit,_ that’s all I want for Christmas.”

“ _Stiles._ ” Chris sounds a little breathless and shocked.

“What? Can’t a guy tell his maybe!boyfriend about all the things he’d like to do with him? Like suck his cock while he smokes. Or fuck him on the kitchen counter. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Or maybe me on my hands and knees, ass up in the air, just begging for you to fill me.”

“Are you drunk?” Chris’ voice is just slightly breathless and mostly exasperated. Stiles nearly counts it as a win anyway.

“Yes. Maybe. No. Ok, yes. Very. But only a little bit.” Stiles laughs. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t mean what I’m saying; doesn’t mean that I don’t want you. Doesn’t mean I won’t compromise what few shaky morals I have to be with you.”

Stiles is awash.

“Chris—I would—of the only things—and I- for you. If it meant that I could be with you, I would—I wasn’t hurt- OK, I was, but I was just so scared. There was your wife, mother of my friend, and all I could think—this is going to make it so much more difficult for—There was _your wife_ and I hadn’t even decided yet but I was already preparing myself for lying and sneaking and hiding if it meant I could be near—You hurt me and I was afraid that—afraid of the things I would do for you.”

Stiles pants for breath, wheezy with the effort of all of that garbled mess of words.

Chris doesn’t say anything but Stiles doesn’t mind, doesn’t even know what he would say. The quiet stretches on and Stiles gets nervous, twitchy.

“You don’t have to compromise yourself to be with me. I’d never ask that of you. Ever.”

Stiles wishes he still had that cigarette now cause he could use it. His throat hurts and his eyes are watering. Stiles grips his phone tight in one hand, the other slides away form him on the railing. He bows his head and listens.

“Who you are; your morals, your humor, your intelligence, and your happiness are important to me, Stiles.”

He can’t help how small and scared his voice sounds when he says, “Were you thinking of her—” Moon above, he can’t finish this, can’t ask this thing that’s stupidly been weighing on his mind. He’s not sure he even wants the answer.

“Did you ever think of Derek when we were together?”

Stiles has to laugh at that. He doesn’t know why, but he does.

“Sometimes something would happen and it’d remind me of him but I never like compared you two or replaced you for him in my mind. It was—” Stiles fails for words, twitches his fingers on the railing to grope for them.

“It was just that that relationship was important to you and he was the last person you dated.”

Stiles nods, licks and bites at his lips. He wants to be with Chris right now, wants to feel his arms around him, to feel safe and secure and warm and cared for.

“He was pretty pivotal to a lot in my life.”

“So of course you think of him sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“And you, with Victoria-“

“Sometimes, but not as often as time went on.”

Stiles takes another shaky breath, he’s too drunk for this. Or maybe too sober. It’s hard to tell sometimes. An icy feeling washes through Stiles at the thought that Chris might’ve—

“What about when we fucked? Did you think about her when you were, when you were in- inside—” Stiles can’t finish this sentence either, already regretting getting that much out. He shakes and he doesn’t know why. _Shit,_ he is such a wreck.

“Stiles, no. Never. Only you, only you. I, Jesus, Stiles. I l—“

Stiles is hit with a wave of all-consuming panic, bleats, “NO!” He’s lost in an ocean of tequila-flavored fear. “Not like this. Not now.”

There’s silence over the line, the club’s music comes to the forefront, beating loud and indelible against Stiles’ bony frame.

“If not now, then when? Is there going to be a later for us?” Chris’ voice is soft and pleading and Stiles feels his heart shatter all over again. He concentrates on breathing, fixes his grip on his phone, tries not to think about the tenuousness that incorporates the entirety of him and Chris.

“If there is,” Stiles stops, stutters over his own tongue, “if there is then I don’t want to hear that. Not when I’m drunk-dialing you behind a gay bar. I don’t want to hear it like this.”

“You better come over tomorrow, then. I’ll explain what I can and you can decide if there is a later time when I can say it.”

“I slept with other people,” Stiles blurts out, the desire to keep in his words weaker than his impulse to speak. “Shit, not, not before Victoria came back, sorry. Just realized how that sounded. But since then. I, I’ll need to get tested, _fuck_. I’m such an idiot.”

“I kind of knew that already, Stiles.”

Chris sounds amused and Stiles hates to ruin the small smile that’s probably on his face.

“No, I mean. Yeah, him. But. There was someone else.”

The line is quiet again and Stiles hates himself. When Chris speaks next, his voice is cold, like he already knows.

“Who?”

Stiles bites his lip and winces in pain part from the way this is going to go over and in part because of the bruise on said lip from…

“Derek.”

The quiet lasts longer this time. Stiles resists the urge to babble uncontrollably and fails.

“It was a mistake. Fuck, Chris, I’m sorry. He was just there and all up in my space and then he was kissing me? And there was the door and then on the stairs and the other door and then my bed and it was, _shit,_ it was just so fucked up and wrong and I didn’t want but he was so—b”

“Stiles,” Chris says and he sounds patient, used to Stiles’ verbal assaults. Stiles should shut up. Shit, he should stop talking now before he makes everything one hundred times worse. He doesn’t.

“And I knew I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t and he was all over me. It felt so good but I didn’t want it to. I didn’t want—he was so rough and it hurt but that just made it better and oh fuck, I hate myself for it because I shouldn’t have- I didn’t want to but—”

“Stiles!”

He shuts his mouth with a small clap of his lips. He isn’t going to cry, he just isn’t. He’s too pathetic for this. Shit, he is just so much trash. He doesn’t deserve Chris. Doesn’t deserve happiness or tranquility or peace but especially not Chris because he gives Stiles all these things.

“You deserve so much better than me,” Stiles says and staggers back until he reaches the wall. Pain shoots through his skull when he hits his head on it. His breath leaves him in a shaky sigh. There isn’t enough tequila in the world to drown this feeling out. There’s silence over the phone line that Stiles takes as tacit agreement. This was just a big mistake. Every second of his day is just one mistake after another. They should have let him die; just left him in the woods to bleed to death so he wouldn’t have to live this damned life of failure and pain.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

Stiles makes a noise that could possibly be the start of a word. He doesn’t even know what he could say to that.

“You don’t get to tell me what I do and don’t deserve anymore than I can you. I say I deserve you.” Chris’ voice is quiet but firm, full of a strange anger that Stiles doesn’t know where to place. “I deserve every kiss hello and every morning I wake up beside you. I deserve you and every night I fall asleep wishing I was in your arms. I deserve you, Stiles, and I hope that, come tomorrow, you’ll decide you deserve me in return.”

There was no doubt in Chris’ voice, no room for the possibility of error or any question on whether he was right or not. Stiles chuffs out a noise that could have been a mangled laugh. He smiles despite himself and licks his lips.

“Chris, I—We’ll talk. Tomorrow. I’ll come over as soon as I get up.”

“I’ll make omelets.”

The door to the club opens, music and a familiar figure roll out. Stiles tenses.

“Look, I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

Chris must hear the tension in Stiles’ voice because when he says, “Is everything alright?” it’s in his business voice, all of the privacy of his lower tones gone. Stiles bites his lip and keeps his eye on the newcomer.

“Maybe,” Stiles says and shoves his phone in his pocket. He turns to face Stiles and grins. Stiles hops the distance to his cane on his good leg.

“Hey, Stiles. Pleasant meeting you here.”

Stiles smiles and plants his cane loosely on the ground, makes a show of looking like he’s depending on it more than he actually is.

“My pack’s inside.”

Josh grins and takes a step closer to Stiles.

“They won’t hear us out here, not over the music.”

Stiles braces himself and wishes he’d had the forethought to bring his super-danger cane tonight. Though, it’s not like he knew this was going to happen.

Josh’s eyes flash gold and he lunges, face shifting as he moves. Stiles flips his grip on his cane and swings his arm, hopes that the wood doesn’t snap when it impacts Josh.

Why do all of the cute boys his age turn out to be werewolves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say now that I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry for what I'm about to do to you. These next few chapters are going to be so hard on me to write and I hope, if I've done my job right, they will be hard for you to read as well. And for that, I'm sorry.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek hates everyone in this bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I might MIGHT be able to post again tomorrow but after that don't expect anything from me until Monday-ish because I'm going over to my lady-friend the Ginger's house for the weekend and I probably won't be back until Sunday night. 
> 
> I kind of rushed to be able to post this before I went to bed so please tell me if you see any typos that I didn't catch. 
> 
>  
> 
> Wednesday is almost over. I told you peeps you wouldn't want Wednesday to end. I warned you but I'm still sorry. So very sorry.

**Soon after Isaac leaves Derek’s company** in favor of dancing with Danny and Boyd, Derek gets sick of the constant press of noise and scents. Derek’s ear is still warm from Isaac’s parting kiss and he can feel where his hands had slid up under his shirt to tickle his sides but without Isaac’s actual presence, he can’t stand any of this.

With a frown that he’s sure Stiles would comment on with such words as “doom” and “wolf” (because Stiles still thinks that’s funny after all of these years) Derek attempts to navigate his way through the club.

A flash of bright red hair at the bar catches his attention. Ogling bookstore girl. Addie? He thinks that’s her name. She pots him looking and waves, a coquettish smile stretches her lips. Some guy who smells like vodka and rancid BO bumps into Derek. He raises his hand to her and continues pushing his way through the crowd. His need to get out of there is magnified. If she’s here then her friends might be, too and he so doesn’t want to deal with them right now. Or ever, really, if he’s being honest with himself. (Considering the events of most recent, he is.) So he pushes through the crowd more aggressively. A few people shout at him for his rudeness but he just doesn’t care.

At last, the front door is in sight. Salvation. Derek all but dives out of it.

And immediately regrets abandoning his jacket under the love triplets inside. It feels colder than it should in comparison to the hot press of so much flesh confined to one building.

Derek breathes a sigh of relief at the relative quiet and digs his phone out. It’s not even midnight. Not even close. If he leaves now, everyone will be on his ass. He just wants to go home and curl up with Isaac in their bed. Is that too much to ask? Of course he doesn’t even know if Isaac would want to. Not after what a shit job he’s done of their relationship.

In the cold quiet, Isaac’s words ring. Make him feel safe. Derek doesn’t know how to do that. He used to think he could keep his loved ones safe before they became nothing but dreams of ash and screams. He used to think he had the whole world figured out until Laura didn’t come back, until Uncle Peter clawed his way out of the ash and smoke and tried to bring it all back with him.

Uncle Peter may have thought Derek didn’t notice, but he did.

He’s reminded every day of how Scott looks just like his cousin. He even acts like Colin sometimes. It used to make it hard for Derek to be around Scott.

Stiles voice breaches Derek’s moment of melancholic reflection.

“My pack’s inside,” he says, sounding confident and Derek knows he’s in trouble. He moves fast and as quiet as he can because Stiles is talking about the pack to someone not pack and that means danger. Interloper.

In a perfect world without double-crossing Argents and fires that take the life of a five year old who loves Beast Boy, Derek wouldn’t have to worry about this: about invading packs and the safety of a nineteen year old boy that he’s crippled for life. In a perfect world, Derek doesn’t maul his boyfriend then spend three months stalking him like some deranged omega with a barely legal fetish. In a perfect world, Derek wouldn’t just have a fading memory of what his mom sounded like.

“They won’t hear us out here, not over the music.”

Where the fuck does this building end? Derek is panicking now. He doesn’t want Stiles to die, doesn’t want to lose yet another person he loves because of his own failings. Under the absolutely horrid music of the club, he can hear Stiles grunt, the sound of something solid hitting flesh and the scrape of two sets of feet against concrete.

The walls are too sheer for him to climb and there’s nothing to hold onto. Too many people around for Derek to risk jumping the distance to the small window (bathroom, probably, if the disgusting scents coming out of it are anything to go by).

He spots a small alleyway, too small to shove through but the uneven bricks could give him the hold he needs to climb. He takes a quick look around him. A couple makes out across the street loudly and a small group of people mill next to the club’s door.

Stiles’ shout is followed quickly by the sounds of tearing cloth. Derek jumps.

His fingers dig into old, crumbly mortar. It feels awful but Derek’s discomfort is less important than Stiles’ life. He is simply less important than Stiles.

“I don’t really want to kill you,” says the voice Derek assumes is the interloper. Stiles is breathing hard, Derek can hear his heart beating faster than the music.

“I’ve got a novel concept,” Stiles says. Derek has made it to the roof; the burn of scrapes already fading as he shakes the grit out of his hands and runs. “Don’t kill me. Or try to kill me, anyway. I don’t think you’ll have much luck with it.”

One of them lets out a surprised oof; feet drag on the ground and Derek’s kick up debris as he picks up speed. A body hits the wall and Derek has made it to the edge of the room.

Only to see Stiles pinning the werewolf to the wall. He stops. Stiles’ knife is at the kid’s throat, flashing silver in the yellowed streetlight.

Derek breathes and watches because it looks like Stiles has got this handled. It was a hard lesson learned that Stiles could actually defend himself. A lesson for Derek that cost Stiles dearly. The werewolf laughs.

“You’re just a human, what can you possibly do to me?”

The back door to the club opens. Derek sees a flash of stoplight red hair, a flint of reflective blue eyes. Stiles says something but Derek doesn’t hear it the same way Stiles doesn’t hear her coming. _  
_

There’s this gurgling wet sound and Stiles limps sideways, away from the interloper but he doesn’t see her coming. It’s too late. Derek jumps.

He accidentally hits Stiles when he tackles her (Addie, her name is Addie) over the railing. The shock in her eyes fades to fear. Her mouth drops open and Derek howls. Howls louder than he’s ever howled before. He burrows his hand under her ribcage and squeezes her heart. She goes limp. Derek tosses her still body as hard as he can against the brick wall.

Derek hears something hit the railing. The noise reverberates through the metal. He turns at Stiles’ grunt of pain.

He turns and Stiles is falling.

There’s a hollow thud and Stiles has fallen.

He takes a step. Stiles’ body is lying motionless on the concrete.

His heartbeat is slowing.  Derek can hear blood drop from his right hand.

He stands there and remembers how peaceful Stiles had looked when he was sleeping next to Derek this afternoon.

The back door bangs open. Lydia is screaming at Jackson to get Scott.

Stiles lays motionless in a puddle next to a half-smoked cigarette.

Scott is shining his phone’s light in Stiles’ eyes, careful not to move him. Allison is calling 911.

Jackson is carrying Addie’s body over to the dumpster. Erica is dragging the other werewolf’s (Josh, it comes to him. His name must be Josh. He smells like the scent that was all over Stiles earlier) body down the stairs by the elbow.

Stiles doesn’t move.

Isaac is next to Derek and some time after Allison gives her phone to Scott, Derek has his hand gripped so tight he might be breaking bones.

Stiles doesn’t move.

Jackson is holding Lydia and Allison has Scott’s phone. She’s dialing a number. Danny and Boyd are making sure no one in the club comes back here.

Stiles’ heart is slower than Derek has ever heard it. Allison’s voice is shaky when she speaks.

“Mister Stilinski,” she says, voice lilting in nervousness. “It’s Allison. Stiles—he’s,” she stops speaking and covers her mouth. Isaac is squeezing Derek’s hand just as hard as he is.

Stiles doesn’t move.

“There was an accident and he—we’ve called an ambulance and—”

“I can hear the sirens,” Jackson says, voice low. Him and Lydia move together to the mouth of the alley.

Stiles doesn’t move.

“Is Stiles OK. My son, is he —” Stiles’ dad sounds scared. Derek can hear the sirens. They clash with the club’s music.

Stiles doesn’t move.

Derek smells blood.

“I, I don’t know,” Allison says, the tears in her eyes sounding in her voice, “I don’t know.”

Stiles doesn’t move. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go lay down on the floor and think about what I've done.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young buck with chocolate brown eyes gets his throat slit and Stiles falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I would have posted this yesterday or the day before but my dream girl played a siren song called "Let's Play Left 4 Dead and Skype together" and followed it by "Hey, you know what you should get? You should get Portal, it's way cheap right now" and then I was never heard of again. 
> 
> Also holidays and that jazz.  
> Spent the weekend at my lady friend, Ginger's house. Stayed there longer than I thought I would. 
> 
> And that's why I haven't posted.  
> BUT ANYWAY.  
> Here is the second to last post for Wednesday.  
> The next one is super depressing. It's taking me forever to write.

**“I don’t really want to kill you,”** Josh says, snags one of his fingers in the tear on Stiles’ shirtsleeve. Stiles is breathing heavy, his cane a useless barrier between Josh and him. He doesn’t have his gun, didn’t think he’d need it. He should have known better. Nothing ever goes right when the pack goes out together. Frankly, Stiles is irritated that everyone he sleeps with turns out to be homicidal. It’s possible that that says something about Stiles but now is not the time to be thinking on it.

“I’ve got a novel concept: don’t kill me.”

Stiles licks his lips and flicks his eyes over Josh’s face. He could maybe get out of this alive. Josh can’t have gone through his first full moon yet; it’s possible he doesn’t know all the ropes yet. “Or try to kill me anyway. I don’t think you’ll have much luck with it.”

He licks his lips again and hopes that Josh doesn’t know him well enough to know how much of a tell that is. Josh smiles, cocky and leering. It’s still somehow cute. Stiles really needs to get himself checked out.

He brings his right knee up as hard as he can, bracing for the inevitable pain that this will cause himself. The oof Josh lets out tells Stiles that his aim was true. Maybe if he were a normal guy with normal non-werewolf problems, he’d feel bad about fighting dirty but he’s too drunk, too human, and too crippled to care much about it as is.

While flares of pain shoot up his right leg, Stiles heaves with his cane and turns, pins Josh to the wall. He thanks everything he can think of that he took one of his mountain ash canes out with him tonight.

Stiles shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out his knife, unlocks the blade, brings his hand up while applying pressure to the thumb stud.

When the pained look passes from Josh’s face, Stiles has his blade pressed against his throat, knife fisted crudely. He used to try and hold it like they do in the movies but experience has taught him that a stronger grip is more important than flash. Like this, he can put the full strength of his arm behind it if (when) he needs to.

It probably won’t kill Josh but at least it will give Stiles time to get help.

“You’re just a human,” He says, cocky smile back on his face. Josh pushes against Stiles’ hold like he’s teasing Stiles, fingers dancing along Stiles’ hips. It makes him shiver and Stiles hates to think he’d had those hands on his body twenty-four hours ago in such a similar way.

Josh leans forward and licks his lips, quicks an eyebrow like he knows that if he really wanted to he could get away. It makes Stiles mad. He’s so tired of people underestimating him. He’s tired of being seen as the weak link.

“What could you possibly do to me?” Josh drops his voice when he speaks. It sounds like it did last night when he’d pressed close to Stiles and whispered dirty things in his ear, chest against Stiles’ back, fingers playing at his hips like they are now.

Stiles grins slow and steady. Josh’s smile grows a little uncertain.

“She didn’t tell you, did she?”

And of course she didn’t, she probably doesn’t even realize, doesn’t even remember now that she counts herself among the werewolves.

Josh’s eyebrows draw together in confusion and Stiles softens his smile.

“Oh baby,” Stiles says, digs the point of his knife between Josh’s trachea and the large tendon on the side of his neck. “It’s not the werewolves you have to worry about,” Stiles says in his sweetest voice before he jerks his left arm away from him. The knife tip punctures Josh’s neck, a look of surprise comes to his face.

Stiles takes a step to the right, leans out of the way of the larger spurts of blood. Josh emits these wet crinkled gurgles as Stiles’ knife comes clean out of his larynx. His body falls to the ground; something hits Stiles in the side.

It’s a glancing blow but enough to send him reeling without his cane. Someone howls. Derek. Stiles would know that howl anywhere. Stiles’ arms windmill, his feet stumble over themselves. He’s almost got his balance back when he slips in the puddle of blood that Josh is making. He twists, staggers, and hits his shoulder on the railing.

Stiles grunts in pain, his shoulder now pulsing in time to the flares of pain from his leg and it isn’t moving anymore. His body is turning and, shit, there’s stairs. He’s going to fall down the stairs.

There’s a moment where he still has one foot on the ground that he hears this loud thudding noise.

He’s falling and the only thing he can think is he shouldn’t have gone out tonight.

 

 

 

Then there’s pain and nothing.

 

 

Stiles is cold and there are unfamiliar voices talking above him. They say his name, his first name. Stiles hasn’t heard that in years. They mispronounce it and Stiles is nothing but floating pain shaped into a person. He wants his dad. He opens his eyes. The lights flare and pulse terribly.

He closes his eyes.

He’s so tired.

The voices say his name.

They sound urgent.

Stiles will see what they want once he isn’t so tired.

“Stay awake,” they say. “You need to stay awake…”

He tries, really, he does. He’s just so tired. So very tired.

One little nap couldn’t hurt.

Maybe he can sleep off this headache.

Yeah, he’ll just sleep it off and then he’ll deal with the voices.

Something moves below him, the room rattles and goes black.

 

 

He’s warm, linen covers him. He doesn’t know where he is and he thinks he’s naked. Last thing he remembers is Derek howling, his feet slipping, cold air pulling him down, and then pain.

There’s beeping and voices. His head hurts. His arm feels numb. His leg is throbbing. All of him hurts.

They’re saying something about hemorrhaging, memory loss, something about possible Sasquatch assault, slipping.

He goes back to sleep. He doesn’t have time for sasquatches.

He doesn’t think he dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of awkward to write so please tell me if it was awkward to read. That way I know if I need to redraft it... again. 
> 
>  
> 
> CHEERS! ~<3


	48. Wednesday Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is such a weebo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry.

**The smell of death on death permeates** the hospital like a rotten onion with no center, the stink of which people have attempted to cover with solvents and perfumes. They don’t do enough to cover the decay, excrement, piss, and puss that hover like unwelcome guests that have stayed far past any invitation they might have had. They had wheeled Stiles behind these large doors and a nurse had told them all to wait here.

Derek keeps searching for Stiles’ voice. He never finds it but he doesn’t lose track of his heartbeat, unnaturally slow and irregular.

Allison and Erica have made a Scott sandwich by the wall. They’re trying hard to comfort him. It does little to quiet Scott’s chants of “I can’t lose him, I just can’t. I can’t lose Stiles. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t…”

Derek can’t stop staring at his hands. The blood has been washed off but he can still smell it. If he had been better, showed up earlier, not left Stiles alone… He had known there was danger, had known better than to leave Stiles unguarded. He’s just a human, a disabled drunk human trying to run in a pack of werewolves. How could he be such an idiot? Stiles is his responsibility. As alpha, they’re all his responsibility and he failed. He is trash and doesn’t deserve to be alpha. Someone should just tear out his throat and take this from him.

He can’t even keep one human safe, how can he ensure the safety of his pack when he can’t even keep _Stiles_ safe?

Fingers touch Derek’s hand, he jumps. Isaac stands at Derek’s side, frowning, eyebrows drawn together. His heart hurts and he wants Isaac to hold him, wants a comfort he doesn’t deserve for so many reasons. Isaac’s fingers grip his; Derek holds on to that small, undeserved anchor tightly. Isaac crowds into Derek’s space and he presses his face into Isaac’s shoulder. He smells like B.O., worry, and dirt.

Isaac rubs his palm up and down Derek’s hipbone, right hand gripping his tight. It’s more a comfort than Derek deserves. He concentrates on the sound of Isaac breathing, the feel of his heart where it beats against his lips when he presses them into Isaac’s neck, on the feel of his hand when it slips under Derek’s shirt and grips his hip. Derek shuts his eyes and lets Isaac surround him. He breathes.

Scott still chants, “I can’t lose him,” Jackson and Lydia sit quietly together, Boyd fidgets against the wall, and Danny sits quietly next to Jackson.

The elevator doors open, someone steps out, Allison shouts, “Dad,” and the sound of high-heeled shoes rush over to the shuffle of heavy boots. Derek steps away from Isaac, turns to face Chris Argent. His hand tightens around Isaac’s and he can’t meet Chris’ eyes. This is all his fault. He hurt Stiles and he couldn’t protect him and now he’s going to have to sit here with the man Stiles cares for most while they wait to see if Derek’s latest failure is as permanent as his last.

Chris wraps his arms around his daughter and kisses her hair. He murmurs, “It’s OK baby girl, everything is going to be OK.”

They all know it’s a lie. Chris guides Allison out of the way and smoothes a hand through her hair. Derek watches Scott and Erica move towards the Argents. Chris opens his arms and the three of them huddle together in his arms.

A sudden wave of loneliness washes over Derek. He misses his dad. No one comes to tell them what’s going on. Derek can hear voices near Stiles but can’t parse the medical speak. Isaac cups the back of Derek’s head and brings him close, presses his lips against Derek’s temple. He melts a little, his eyes closing, just lets himself drift in the noise and quiet clamor of the hospital, Isaac’s lips warm against his skin. He wants. So much.

The elevator doors open again, a familiar voices says,  “You,” and Derek knows Sheriff Stilinski is speaking to him. He turns away from Isaac, faces the still uniformed father of his pack mate and opens his mouth. He doesn’t know what he is going to say but it doesn’t matter. Stilinski strides over and punches Derek in the mouth. Ow.

He stumbles a little, making sure to keep his hand tight in Isaac’s.

“This is your fault.”

Stilinski stands there and glares, his hands fisted at his sides. Strangely, Derek feels relief that he isn’t the only one blaming him. After last time—after Derek attacked Stiles and left him crippled—everyone tried to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault. It was the encroaching pack, the full moon, the stress. He could tell they were lying but it didn’t stop them from trying.

“I hope you’re not making a habit of that.”

Stilinski turns, points threateningly at Chris. Scott, Erica, and Allison move away from Chris.

“Shut your trap, Argent. I thought I told you never to come near my son again.”

Argent rubs a hand across his jaw.

“Quite physically.”

Derek is momentarily cheered that he isn’t the only one Stiles’ dad punches.

“Why are you even here?”

Stiles’ heartbeat steadies, it’s still too slow. Derek hopes that this is a good sign and watches Stilinski glare at Chris.

“Allison called and I care about Stiles.”

Allison takes a hesitant step so she’s standing close enough to grab her dad’s hand. Scott watches silently from where he’s huddled into Erica’s hair. Isaac’s grip tightens. Stilinski scoffs.

“Yeah, I can really see the care from the way you—No. Never mind,” Stilinski says, shakes his head. “I’m not doing this while my son lays in a hospital bed.”

He turns away from Chris and walks to the nurse’s station. Derek can hear him ask the nurse about his son. The nurse tells him what they already told Derek.

They don’t know anything yet, he was badly hurt, they’re doing all they can.

 

Hours pass. Jackson and Lydia leave first. Boyd goes home with Danny after a doctor comes and tells them that Stiles is stable, all they can do is wait for him to wake up. Allison takes a mostly asleep Scott to his house. Sheriff Stilinski has to go back to work shortly after that, his radio squawking in police code.

Now it’s just Erica curled up in one of the hospital’s provided bench chairs, her head on Chris’ shoulder, shoes abandoned on the floor, her feet in Derek’s lap. Isaac has his arm around Derek and Derek has his head resting on Isaac’s shoulder.

Derek keeps nodding off then jerking away.

“Alright. That’s it, I’m taking you home.”

Isaac shakes Derek and Derek shakes his head.

“Not until Stiles wakes up.”

He buries his face farther into Isaac’s clothes and tenses. He doesn’t want to leave Stiles alone again, unprotected again. He doesn’t want to be responsible for him getting hurt again.

“What good would you do him or any of us like this?”

Derek shakes his head again and sits up.

“I’m not leaving him unguarded.”

He hears Isaac take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Me and Erica will still be here.”

Derek glares at Chris. He thinks he’s helping but he’s not.

“Yeah,” Erica says, “We won’t leave. Not until someone comes to take our place to watch over him. Go home, Derek. Get some sleep. You’re no good to anyone when you don’t get your beauty sleep.”

She shifts her head just enough to smile tiredly at him and nudge his thigh with her foot. He gives up. They’ve created a united front to conspire against him. Isaac stands and tugs on Derek’s elbow. He sighs and stands up, leans over until he can lay his head on Isaac’s shoulder. He is actually pretty tired.

“Here,” he says and digs through Derek’s pocket for his keys. Derek tries to glare at Isaac from where his face is half-hidden behind Isaac’s collar as Isaac hands the keys to Derek’s camaro to Erica. She smiles and jingles the keys in her hand before stuffing them into her bra. It’s a good thing Erica is here because no one else is allowed to drive his car but her and him.

Isaac herds him towards the elevators.

“Call if anything changes, happens, whatever. I want you to send me updates, Erica.”

“Holy damn, teddy bear, just go home and snuggle with your man already!”

Isaac snickers and pushes Derek into the elevators.

 

The drive to the apartment is quiet, Derek mostly asleep in Isaac’s passenger seat, the sounds of the wheels on the road and the engine’s running the only noise filling the space. Isaac has to threaten to pick Derek up and carry him up the stairs to get him to wake up enough to get out of the car. Truthfully, Derek wouldn’t have minded that at all. Much, anyway. He’s sure Isaac would tease him endlessly about it and tell Stiles so that Stiles could, too.

Derek leans against Isaac’s back while he unlocks the door. Isaac just grabs Derek’s arms over his shoulders and drags Derek into the apartment. He kicks the door shut behind him. Derek nuzzles into the soft hair on the side of Isaac’s neck.

“Into bed with you,” he says, kicking the bedroom door open in front of him so he doesn’t have to let go of Derek’s arms. For one brief moment, Derek’s heart beats a little heavy, thinking about other things they could do in a bed together. That thought is quickly snuffed by his mind providing him a helpful visual of Stiles lying on the wet cement.

Isaac deposits Derek onto the bed and shrugs off his jacket. Derek kicks off his shoes and concentrates on taking off his pants. He tries to tell himself that it’s just like any other night that he’s gone to bed with Isaac. It feels almost like every other night except… not.

Because now Derek is lying under the blankets in just his boxers with Isaac in his sleep pants. He wants to reach over and touch Isaac, in any way. He just wants to hold Isaac. Derek lies there, staring at the ceiling for what feels like eons.

Then Isaac sighs and with a, “Oh come on, you stupid teddy bear, come here,” he turns onto his side and pulls on Derek’s arm. He comes more than willingly. Isaac’s arm cushions Derek’s head and Derek’s arms around Isaac. He closes his eyes and presses closer. Isaac runs his fingers through Derek’s hair, his leg sliding over Derek’s hip and pulling them more snuggly together.

Isaac’s heartbeat and breathing is so loud, it almost drowns out everything else in the complex. Derek falls asleep like that.

He doesn’t hear his phone vibrate a few hours later, he doesn’t here any of following vibrations either, phone still inside the pocket of his leather jacket on the floor with the rest of his clothes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now you have to tell me your hypothesis, Lauraby. You must. You've held my curiosity captive long enough!  
> Also seriously considered killing Stiles or turning him in to a werewolf. You have one of your own to thank for the latter because I didn't think of it until someone said they were afraid that would happen. Ahhhhahahahahahaha.


	49. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much busier this term than I expected to be... But, here it is.

_Stiles has woken in enough hospitals_ to know one without opening his eyes. Fantastic. He remembers… He remembers calling Chris behind the bar, the door to the bar opening and then-- Nothing. Something happened, obviously, otherwise Stiles wouldn't be in this bed but he hasn't a clue.

What he does know is that he's sore all over; his shoulder aches in spectacular synchronization with his knee and his head could be the next contestant on the Pain is Right. Also his arm appears to be in a sling. That's worrying.

Whatever they've given him is not strong enough.

"Stiles?"

Stiles opens his eyes— mistake, woah are the light painful in here— and sits up.

"Danny? What happened?"

He hovers next to Stiles' bed, Jackson sits in one of two chairs they've evidently moved closer to Stiles' bed.

"You were attacked. That's all I know."

"Derek hasn't been too forthcoming on the circumstances."

Jackson sounds angry, no one likes it when Derek doesn't share. Stiles sighs.

"Of course not."

Stiles rubs a hand over his head and onto his face. There's a little bit of stubble there but no more than a day's at the most. The bed shifts as Danny sits on the end of it. Lightly, he touches Stiles' left leg. Danny's face is a map of concern: brows drawn together, small frown tugging at his lips. Stiles has the urge to smooth it away but knows he can't.

"I don't remember any of it."

Stiles frowns. It's discomfiting to not remember anything, especially since he apparently was at the center of it, given his current state. His head throbs in protest to everything.

"Yeah, we know."

Jackson sounds as annoyed as he looks. Jackson worrying will never not amuse Stiles.

"This isn't the first time you've woken up," Danny says with a hesitant drag to his words.

Stiles' eyebrows make a run for his hairline.

"The doctor said the memory loss is normal."

Frustrated air blows out of Stiles' mouth and he slumps back, head hitting the wall. Ow. That was, yet another, mistake. His everything hurts. Stiles sits back up, takes a moment to try to adjust his pillows and bites his lip. Fixing his pillow turns out to be just slightly beyond his skill-set with his arm all slinged up.

He's at least glad that he hasn't forgotten his conversation with Chris. That was… yeah, important.

Sitting up turns out to be more work than Stiles cares for so he starts to lie down. This time Danny helps him.

"Everyone else is safe, though, right?"

Danny nods, the 'for now' understood.

 

It's the quiet chatter of a familiar voice that wakes him. Great, hospital. Fantastic. He hurts all over with twin light houses of pain in his shoulder and knee.

"Dad?"

The conversation stops, his dad is over by the door with, what Stiles presumes is, a doctor.

"Stiles."

When he goes to sit up, he discovers that his right arm is immobile. That's OK; he didn't want to use it anyway.

"What happened?"

Last thing he remembers is standing behind the club on the phone with Chris. Dad walks over to him, a careful expression on his face.

"You were attacked."

Ah, well, that explains the injuries and the hospital.

"I don't remember."

"That's to be expected, Mister Stilinski. You sustained a pretty serious head injury."

"That'd do it."

"Can I have a moment with my son, doctor?"

"Yes, of course. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me."

Stiles' dad shuffles closer to Stiles. He's got his serious face on. Uh oh.

He stands next to Stiles' bed, face switching between concerningly serious and seriously concerned. Stiles girds himself. 

"The doctor said when they examined you they found-- they found signs of sexual assault."

His dad says the last two words slowly, his face pinched. The next rushes out quicker, "They said it wasn't as recent as the injuries that put you in here. Stiles— Where you— did someone—"

He can't seem to be able to finish the sentence and Stiles doesn't blame him.

"Who did this to you, son. Who—"

Stiles doesn't need to be telepathic to know who his dad thinks did this to him. There are only two candidates and one of them has already proven to be that violent.

"Dad— _No._ It was consensual." Mostly. He shakes his head. "Completely unrelated."

Stiles reaches out his good arm and his dad comes, a pained but relieved look on his face. He pulls Stiles in against his chest, one hand rubbing his back, the other cradling Stiles' head gently. Stiles' good arm is around him; the material of his dad's jacket bunches in his hand.

Stiles hurts. Everywhere. But momentarily, he feels young and foolish and like his dad's arms are the safest place in the world. He breathes in deep, smelling old coffee, stale cop car, and curly fries. 


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a monster mash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight scenes take a lot of practice and skill to write. Both of which I am lacking. This sounds so fucking choppy but WHATTHEFUCKEVER. I'm not happy with any of it anyway.  
> I planned to end it just as the fight was starting but I decided not to for some fucking reason, I don't know. I might take out everything after that later. I'm not sure. I just hate it so much right now. I had it ready to post Sunday but I didn't because I wanted to give myself time to see if I could think of a better way to write this. Obviously, I did not succeed.  
> Definitely rewriting maybe.

“ _Are you going to kill me in front of my daughter,_  Derek?”

Derek hears Allison’s fingers tighten on her compound bow and he wishes he could take this all away from her, make it so her friend isn’t in the hospital, that her mother put him there, that she never came back from pretending to be dead, and that she didn’t have to go through any of this crap. Derek hasn’t been to see Stiles yet but Erica and Danny told him that he’s fine, that he woke up, and that, apart from some memory loss, is healing well.

That will have to be good enough to appease the gnawing beast of worry and guilt in his stomach.

Victoria is smiling and it's eerily similar to some of the ones that Chris has given Derek countless times before.

“Please don’t make him do this, mom.”

Allison’s voice wavers, Scott shifts in his position next to Isaac, and Carson stands behind Victoria, eyes soft, human looking, and mouth pulled down. He seems a creature of abject regret. Derek doesn’t pity him. Pity creates room for mercy and there is no mercy for those who hurt him. The rest of the Virginia Pack move restlessly.

“It’s up to Derek, Allison, not me.”

She sounds so smug and sure and Derek wants to claw that look off her face. He just doesn’t know how to with words.

Stiles would.

Derek knows why Victoria took him out. Without Stiles, their pack is weaker, less focused. None of them are as apt at this as Stiles is.

“Leave or die.”

Derek sounds more angry than frustrated. That’s an improvement.

Victoria tisks.

“Oh, Derek, I know you won’t follow through.”

Her smile is still there and Derek hates her. He raises his eyebrows, bares his teeth.

“One little human is hardly reason enough to kill a woman in front of her daughter.”

“He’s pack.”

Derek is getting extra tired of all this talking. Victoria huffs and Derek hears a set of feet move from the patio onto the lawn. Chris. That would be Chris.

“He’s not even dead.”

Derek is getting pissy… er.

“Not for lack of trying.”

Victoria takes a step closer. Derek waits. She’s going to give him a reason. They always do. She’ll do something, anything, that requires him to be on the defensive and he will be forced to kill her. He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to take another life- someone’s mother, sister, lover. He doesn’t want to make anyone else grieve.

“Oh,” she says, holding her hands out as if to show she’s harmless and shocked. Derek knows better than to believe that. “So you’re going to murder me in my own home because some drunk—”

“This isn’t your home.”

Derek notices that Victoria’s head turns much the way Derek wishes he could turn his but he knows better than to take his eyes off an opponent. Repeated lessons one day stick.

“Chris, what’re you talking about?”

Derek hears Chris’ feet move steadily across the grass in too even intervals.

“You left.”

Victoria frowns, seeing something in Chris’ face that Derek can’t.

“Christopher,” she says, sharp smile on her face. “This isn’t the time to talk about our personal life.”

Chris has moved up to Derek’s side. In his peripheral vision, he can just see Chris. Wind blows through nearby trees, a block away some kid shouts above the squeak of a swing set.

“That wasn’t some years long sabbatical you went on. You left. You made your daughter grieve and left me to cover your tracks.”

The only word Derek has to describe Victoria’s face when Chris finishes is ‘thunderous.’

“If you’re mad because your… playmate got hurt, this isn’t the place for your hurt feelings.”

Allison’s breathing and heart rate become a little uneven, Scott’s heart speeds up, Chris remains steady and unfazed.

“I know,” Chris says, a strange happy lilt in his voice. He angles his body sideways to her, putting his back to Derek. He knows a sign of trust when he sees one. Chris raises his arm and Derek also knows a crossbow when he sees one, even when they’re not pointed at him.

“Now leave Hale Territory.”

Victoria’s eyes narrow, Carson moves a little away from her, Gary snarls while shifting. Derek can hear Isaac’s heartbeat behind him, picking up the same way Scott’s did.

“Dad—”

Victoria takes a step back and, as if that is the cue, the other members of Victoria’s pack she failed to introduce rush forward. Danny and Scott meet them, Isaac moves to cover Chris, and Derek lets his teeth elongate, his nails grow and sharpen. He can feel his eyes bleed red.

Victoria stands back and nods at Gary who grins in turn and faces Derek. Carson stays behind Victoria, careful looking and scared. Gary rushes Derek.

He meets him halfway. Gary isn’t as good of a fighter as he thinks he is. Probably young to the life- definitely changed and not born. That’s the only reason the idiot would wear a tight shirt that doesn’t stretch and a tighter jacket over it that restricts his swings when he tries to claw at Derek’s face. He isn’t much of a challenge at all. Matty could probably take him.

Scott is fighting some burly guy who seems to have something against shirts, if what he’s done to Scott’s is any indication, Danny is repeatedly laying out the two young ones who keep trying to rush him and Chris with little difficulty and Allison’s arrows fly sporadically and never miss their target, finding calf muscles and biceps easily.

Victoria edges closer and closer to the gate out of the backyard. He needs to stop her. Derek takes a step in her direction, ignoring his opponent. She might go after Stiles; she might take him out when they’re distracted and weak. He doesn’t know how many are in her pack. This could just be a small portion. Derek has no idea.

Gary screams and rushes at Derek. He gets his arms around Derek’s middle and runs until Derek’s back meets the side of Argent’s house. Plaster crumbles from the walls onto Derek’s shoulders. Gary is rolling across the yard before it lands on his shirt. One of Allison’s arrows spears him in the stomach, just below the sternum and Derek winces. He knows how much that hurts. Someone screams.

Derek’s head whips in the direction of Danny and Chris, heart going faster than reasonable. Stiles would never forgive him if he got Chris killed.

Someone falls to the ground, clutching their eye but it’s not Chris. It’s some black haired boy, that’s all Derek can see.

Victoria! He has to stop— Before Derek can properly get his feet under him again to rush after her, there’s the click and whiz of an arrow. It hits Victoria in the leg, right behind the Achilles tendon. She falls and Derek is running after her. Another hits her hand when it reaches for the arrow in her leg. Victoria bats it away.

She looks up and glares at someone to Derek’s right. Not Allison, Allison is behind Derek, near the side of the house. Derek stops five feet from her when he realizes that she isn’t getting up. She could pull that out and leave; it wouldn’t even be difficult for her. She’s an alpha. One little arrow isn’t going to work to take them down. Chris walks toward her, readying another arrow in his crossbow.

“Really, Christopher. Are you that upset over your little boy toy getting hurt?”

Derek can hear something in Chris’ jaw pop before he speaks.

“Don’t ‘really, Christopher’ me.”

Chris stops next to Victoria’s feet, just far enough away that she’d have to move to kick at him. Victoria’s smile is so toxic, Derek is a little afraid for his health.

“I should have known you’d end up like your sister.”

Chris takes a step closer and crouches next to her feet, he smiles at her and even Derek can see how much Kate and Chris look alike. Carson stands next to the gate, eyes darting between Victoria and Chris and the latch on the gate. Derek doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know he wants out of here.

“Both of you are predators.”

Chris’ free hand lowers down and lightly touches the arrow in Victoria’s leg.

“I’m not the one with the fangs here.”

Victoria laughs, Derek hears feet running up behind him and he turns just in time to slide his claws through some beta’s stomach. They groan and topple over, gurgling pitifully. Derek kicks them away before turning back to watch Chris and Victoria.

“I’m not the one with the perverted penchant for young boys.”

Derek shakes blood and other, far grosser, things off his hand and Victoria hisses. The slide and scrape of arrowhead over tendon is a sound Derek is far too familiar with.

“No, you just like to have your obedient soldier’s throat in your hands.”

There’s more wet sounds far too much like the sound of macaroni being stirred accompanied by an intake of breath from Victoria. Derek winces when Chris removes the arrow in one quick, sloppy jerk.

“No use wasting a perfectly good arrow.”

Chris stands, leaving the crossbow hanging at his side and takes a step back. Victoria flexes her leg, stretching and rolling her ankle as it heals.

“Don’t come back.”

She stands, takes a few steps backwards. Carson is lifting the latch on the gate, fingers already wrapped around the handle.

“Oh, one more thing, Vickie.” Chris sounds scarily chipper at this point. “He’s not my boy toy. Toys were always more your thing. I prefer partner participation to strangulation. Lucky thing you’re a werewolf now; you’re much harder to suffocate now.”

Victoria’s lips tighten, she stands, straightens her jacket. Her pack, the ones that can still walk that is, are limping their way to her.

“You wouldn’t.”

Chris smiles, the arrow in his hand bobbing up and down.

“You’re right, that is also more your thing. Me, I prefer cigarettes. There’s just something about inhaling smoke that reminds me of family.”

There’s the sounds of bodies being dragged across grass behind him but most of the Victory Pack has gathered behind Victoria now. None of them are carrying injured pack mates. Derek wonders if they ever went and took care of the two they left behind the club.

“How about a barbeque. You bring the meat,” Victoria says, smile tight on her mouth, hands pressed flat one over the other on her stomach.

Victoria turns and leaves.

Derek need not wonder where Allison got her ability to smile, insult, and threaten again. It was definitely both of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to sort reward all of you for sticking with me on this story for so long it's /almost actually spring break/ I've written a, very short, something-something for you all. It's pre-WHWOTMOOC. It really is a very short scene and I haven't posted it on AO3 for reasons that I will not explain yet but it can be found on my dreamwidth account.  
> Here: http://monstertesk.dreamwidth.org/432.html  
> I am also unhappy with it but at this point that just seems par for the course.
> 
> Anyway, I'm going to go back to chapter one and read through it all again. I feel like I've lost the tone by having to go so long between writing chapters.


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Stiles talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured out what was bothering me about the last chapter: I wrote it in my RP style instead of my TW style. I'll leave it but at least I figured it out. Incidentally: drowning in insecurities and self-hate.

_“He really shot her in the leg?”_

Scott nods, eyebrows drawn down. He looks like a thunderous puppy and it’s possible that Stiles is a little high on painkillers because he can’t stop wondering if Scott’s hair feels as soft as it looks.

“Huh,” Stiles says, sits back. “Kinda feels like an arrow to the knee moment, you know?”

Stiles hates how same hospitals are. It’s hard to tell time when everything always seems the same.

“What d’you mean?”

Stiles sighs and twitches the finger his heart monitor is attached to.

“It just doesn’t match up. Her pack- and her –are stronger than that. It shouldn’t have been so easy to make them fall back.”

Scott’s frown turns confusedly thoughtful.

“Yeah, you’re right. They were all older than us and prepared. You think she’s up to something?”

Stiles levels a flat look at Scott. Sometimes he really cannot believe how dense Scott can be. Stiles knows better, though. Scott’s not stupid; he just doesn’t apply himself evenly.

“OK, yeah, point taken.”

Scott grins and holds his hands up. His arms drop onto Stiles’ bed and he frowns, fingers moving slowly over a crease in the blanket.

“So, uh, I was gonna ask Allison to marry me.”

For a moment, Stiles wishes he’d been drinking something so he could give that abrupt change in topic the spit-take it deserves.

“You were? As in past-tense-are-no-longer?”

Scott nods, eyebrows drawing up in the center.

“I was going to ask her on Easter but I wasn’t sure if I should because I don’t want Erica to think I love her less or that I don’t want to be with her anymore but…”

“It’s Allison,” Stiles says, frown taking over his face as he finishes Scott’s sentence. Scott sighs.

“Yeah, and now with Allison’s mom back and causing all of this- trouble, I just don’t think it’s the right time.”

Stiles sighs. Scott has a point. Or two. Really good points. They sit there silently for a minute.

“Maybe it isn’t the right time,” Stiles says, eyes fixed on Scott. “But you should probably still talk to Erica.”

“What for?”

Scott sounds as defeated as he looks.

“You said it yourself: this affects her. Allison _is_ her girlfriend.”

Scott sighs and leans back.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m not going to propose when Allison’s mom is trying to kill us.”

Stiles stamps down his feelings to the point where he’s not even sure what they are. Scott doesn’t need him wallowing in his own Argent-related problems.

“Look,” Stiles says, leans towards Scott, and places his hand next to Scott’s. “Do you love Allison?”

Scott looks at Stiles like he’s an idiot.

“Of course.”

“And you want to marry her?”

“Yeah, but— ”

Stiles shakes his head. “No buts. Yes or no only.”

“Yes.” Scott’s face smoothes out a little.

“Do you love Erica?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want to hurt her, do you?”

Scott shifts, looking affronted.

“Never.”

“Then talk to her about this.”

Scott opens his mouth and Stiles knows he’s going to argue with him. Stiles won’t let him. Too much shit has gotten all messed up because no one will talk to each other.

“No arguments. Erica deserves that much at least. Talk to her, tell her everything, don’t leave anything out.”

Someone walks by the open door and Scott sighs, slumps until his head hits Stiles’ bed.

“This would be so much easier if I could marry both of them.”

Stiles pats Scott’s head and feels tired. Stiles should really take his own advice. He misses Chris a pathetically large amount. 

“You could probably take advantage of some old bi-laws in Utah?”

Scott laughs into Stiles’ blanket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just... just gonna go crochet shit and smoke. On the roof. Yeah. That'll make me feel better. Maybe. I hope. I yelled at some baby deer today. No shit. Sitting on the roof and I saw them in the woods next to my house and I fucking cussed them out. They were not very impressed. I am a lump of impotent rage.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek takes a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much happens action-wise in this chapter but... eh... you'll get over it.
> 
>  
> 
> I've already started the next chapter but am not sure when I'll have time to finish and post it. I need a break after writing this chapter. Derek's mindset is simultaneously therapeutic and triggering for me to write.  
> It doesn't help that the next chapter is going to be difficult to write. It's already proving to be unwieldy.

**The water going down the shower drain looks like that stuff that always comes out of the ketchup bottle first** no matter how much you shake it. Derek isn’t sore but he’s tired and a little mystified over how he ended up here. A week ago at this time he was watching Fargo with Isaac on their couch while eating Boyd’s leftover teriyaki chicken.

Now he’s taking a shower in Chris Argent’s house while said man secures their hostages. Over the shower, Derek can hear the shift of clothing, bare feet, Isaac’s heart beat, Boyd’s voice speaking low into a phone, Lydia on the other side talking about amps, and the scratch of wire as two semi-conscious werewolves are being tied up.

The house is full and, even with the drama; some part of Derek just feels settled, at peace. It’s strangely reassuring to have so many of the people he cares for in one place. And similarly terrifying.

Derek remembers far too well what happened the last time everyone he cared about were under one roof. The charring in his mind, the way his skin felt sun burnt, the smell of cinder, ash, and fear, the wretchedness of being held by all that remained of his family. It wasn’t just his childhood home that fire consumed until it was nothing but a burnt out husk. One barely standing structure, the ruins of all that he knew. The smell of ash mixed perfectly with the perfume still on his jacket from Kate.

Except that burnt feeling is because Jackson just flushed the toilet, the cinder, ash, and fear is from Allison’s attempts at making coffee, Danny’s cologne is the perfume he smells, and that wretched feeling isn’t loss but his desire to feel Isaac next to him, with him in a way that feels more familiar than his leather jacket and harder to control than the first time he got behind the wheel of the Camaro.

Secure in the knowledge that no one could see him, Derek smiles, equal parts relieved and grieving. He picks up a bottle of shampoo he’s mostly sure is Allison’s, dumps a larger amount than necessary in his hand, rubs it into his hair and whatever else he can spread it over. Someone in the house turns on music.

Derek would put money down that it was Danny, considering the songs playing.

He finishes showering in a haze, heart oscillating between hurting from happiness and hurting with guilt for feeling happy at all.

Derek doesn’t shake out of it when he towels his hair dry or when he rubs the rest of himself off, not even when he’s walking down the hall towards the guest room his pack has taken over. Inside the room, Isaac takes one look at him from Erica’s lap and sits up.

They stare at each other, a moment, all of the noises before that had comforted Derek becoming so loud that he hears nothing. The burbling of the coffee percolating, the snap of a snare drum from Danny’s music, Boyd’s voice, steady and quiet, the sound of a car starting up and pulling out mulled together into a blur of static.

Derek takes a step towards Isaac, hesitates, one arm coming up of its own volition, hovering a little before he can force it back down.

Slowly—or quickly, Derek’s not sure—Isaac stands, bridges the distance, raises his right hand and, gently, so very gently, touches Derek’s cheek. He stays frozen to the spot, unable to move for fear of everything burning down around him. Victoria was a lot like Kate in some ways, the only difference was Victoria’s supreme level of self-control.

Isaac’s hand smells like brine, soil, and a little blood. There’s a spring in the mattress that squeaks when Erica moves, Derek can hear Allison’s voice, speaking fast and serious, Lydia’s responses to her, Jackson and Boyd wondering if they should’ve let Chris take their turn for watching over Stiles—Derek will have to speak to them later because he told them two people at all times.

He’s overwhelmed—overloaded, if he’s being honest—with grief. He’ll never hear Mattie singing to herself about what she’s doing, never hear Laura arguing with Uncle Peter again, never hear his cousins chasing each other in the woods or the slight accent his grandparents never lost. Ian will never yell in preteen angst to be called Remus and his twin will never roll his eyes at Ian and call him a were-emo. Mattie will never curl up on the living room floor or climb all over him, asking annoying questions about ESPN until he puts on the Magic School Bus again.

Derek is never getting them back, will never see them again but he will see other families, intact families every day. It’s the most fair and unfair thing in all the universe made both worse and better by having a pack again.

Derek buries his face against Isaac’s shoulder and hurts. He has a pack and they are his family but they aren’t his _family_. They could never replace what Derek lost. Isaac runs his hands up and down his back and Derek hasn’t forgotten that Erica is there, sitting on the bed, breathing but not moving.

His heart is by turns louder and quieter than Isaac’s. Derek feels weak, is weak, doesn’t want his pack to replace what he lost. He would never want them to fill that void inside him. It’s his and they can’t have it.

Isaac slides his hands down and forward, grips Derek’s sides and pulls him towards the bed. Derek shuffles obediently after him. Gently, as if Derek is made of fragile things like burnt brick or the support beams that held upright his family’s home, Isaac pushes Derek down onto the bed. He sags, gives with less resistance than those beams ever did, and lies down.

Erica twists and flops down next to Derek. Her elbow digs into his stomach where it lands, other arm crooked so she can rest her cheek on it. Erica’s seeming faith in her inability to break him both reassures and terrifies him. Isaac lies down on the other side of Derek. The bed bounces, squeaks in protest, and settles. Derek is effectively trapped.

He can’t decide if that angers or comforts him. Derek stares at Erica, she stares back, that small smile that screams confidence even though Derek knows it’s a nervous habit on her face. He bends his arm and drowns his hand in her hair while the bed depresses under Isaac’s shifting weight.

“So were we victorious or did that fight scream ringers to anyone else?”

Isaac pushes on Derek’s shoulder, moving him again as Derek responds.

“I don’t think that’s the best they’ve got.”

“It was suspiciously easy to take them down,” Isaac says as he wriggles behind Derek, wraps his arms around him. Erica’s elbow digs even more into him from this angle and she smells like nail polish, hospital, and Stiles.

In a novel change from status quo, Derek feels embarrassed for her to see Isaac wrapped around him like this. It feels private and secret for her to see Isaac pushing Derek around, touching him, pressing his face into Derek’s shoulder, his jaw brushing against Derek’s neck in such a way that it makes Derek feel warm all over. She seems unfazed. Though Derek is sure (suspicious) that she knows something has changed between the two of them, however much Derek can’t find any actions that have altered significantly between Isaac and Derek.

“Victoria isn’t weak. It’s taken her this long to come back and I doubt she’d come unprepared.”

Derek pulls Erica against his chest, buries his nose in her hair, and tries not to listen to the rest of the house. He doesn’t want to lose her. He doesn’t want to lose Isaac. He doesn’t want to lose any of them. Scott, Danny, Jackson, Lydia, Boyd, Allison, Stiles, and even Chris. They're all he has; his pack is his world.

Erica snuggles into Derek’s chest, nods, and refuses to stop smelling like Allison and Scott, little tendrils of Stiles’ scent fading all too fast. Isaac’s arms tighten around him and Derek decides he feels angry and comforted and guilty about both but mostly, overridingly, he feels worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by my recent break down at the office at having to listen to someone's family live over the phone and the oncoming of Easter (now passed but eh, I couldn't bear to tear at these wounds on the actual day).
> 
> It sucks, being an orphan. All the time. 
> 
> Anyway, next chapter: Chris, a wheelchair, and something everyone has been begging for since Victoria showed up. 
> 
> Also: Back in the groove of writing fic, notice the longer chaps? Wootwoot. I know it's still not quite up to scratch but I'm getting there. Give me time.
> 
> I'll /try/ to post the next chapter within a week if I can.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hospitals, nail polish, and Christopher Argent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. There's no wheelchair. It worked better without it. I might do what I was going to do with the wheelchair in chapter fifty-five.
> 
>  
> 
> Posted in a hurry, watch out for errors. TA!

**“You know, without so much as glancing at your charts,** I can tell you’re feeling better.”

Stiles smiles at Scott’s mom, cocks his head to the side and watches her walk into his hospital room, her arms akimbo, and a frown on her face.

“Does this mean I look visibly better and can go home now?

Stiles doesn’t know if he means his dad’s house or Chris’ and whether he should feel guilty for one or both. He knows he has a lot to be guilty of so one more on the pile shouldn’t make much of a difference. She stops next to the machines, glances at them, before looking at Stiles.

“If by visibly better you mean managing to piss off every nurse on this floor and, somehow, the ones surrounding it as well.”

Stiles attempts a repentant face but knows it doesn’t work when all she does in response is raise an eyebrow.

“Be _nice_ to them, Stiles. They’re just trying to do their job.”

The fingers of his right hand twitch, his shoulder a steady pace of new pain against the familiar throb of his knee.

“They can do it just fine without me in here.”

She gives him her mom face, the one that says she’s not going to buy his crap so he should just stop trying to sell it. Stiles misses his mom with every centimeter of his bruised and hurting body.

“You’re going to stay here and be good and I’m not going to get any more nurses coming to me asking me how to deal with you.”

She points her finger threateningly at Stiles and he lowers his head with a nod, the tiredness in her face doing more to make him feel contrite than the scolding look she tries to mask it with. Scott’s mom rubs a hand over his scalp, a gesture better suited to Scott’s floppy mane than Stiles’ buzz, and turns to leave.

Stiles wonders where his friends are, if they’re O.K., and tries not to think on the quiet but overwhelming fact that Chris hasn’t come to visit. Stiles tries to tell himself that it doesn’t bother him as he watches Scott’s mom walk out the door, out of sight, that he’s had more than enough company, that he can’t actually be feeling lonely when he’s had at least two people in his room since he woke up. He doesn’t remember most of it but Erica told him almost everyone had visited. Almost.

The dull intrusive noises of a busy hospital are the opposite of comforting. Stiles pulls his phone out of the blankets where he stashed it earlier and tries to distract himself by checking his e-mail. He barely manages not to go to his voicemail in the pathetic hope that he hadn’t deleted any message Chris might have left on his phone before this shit-storm of a week had started. Stiles leans back until his head hits the pillow, left hand falling to the bed, phone loosely held in fingers that are just as tempted to throw the damned thing across the room as to wade through his inboxes for something, anything, to alleviate the nervous longing buzzing through him.

Stiles can’t help but think that Chris is never going to come. He’s not even quite sure why he had the audacity to think it in the first place, especially after everything that Stiles has done.

The miserable hope that Chris would come to him is not something that Stiles can shake, every footstep that so much as pauses outside Stiles’ door fills him in turns with anxiety, hope, disappointment, then anxiety again.

With tired movements, Stiles puts his phone back under the blankets against his left thigh, stupidly worrying that if he couldn’t feel it, he’d miss a call or a text or an email or something from—someone. He hates hospitals. He wants out.

Out of the hospital or out of his body, he doesn’t care which so long as he doesn’t have to deal with this pain anymore. Stiles would happily spend a week as a cat or even a dog if it meant he could get a break from all of this crap. The painkillers they gave him obviously were not strong enough to handle Stiles’ ogre-levels of pain.

He wonders where his friends are, wonders if they’re alright, wonders how his dad is doing, if he’s eating right, if Chris is getting along with Derek, if Scott has talked to Erica yet, how Danny is doing with the break up, if any of them are hurt or scared but mostly he can’t stop replaying his conversation with Chris last night over and over and over and over.

It is the only comfort to him that he hadn’t fucked everything up between them beyond repair. Stiles wants to hear what he has to say, wants to forgive Chris and be forgiven in return, wants to hear his voice again, see his face. Shit, he’d kill just to be able to hold Chris’ hand for the second time.

There’s a set of footsteps that slows, stops, and quietly get louder, nearer to Stiles’ door. He doesn’t look; it’s probably just a nurse or an orderly. The feet get closer, Stiles tenses, opens his eyes, afraid that it’s Josh again or maybe Victoria, if the universe is being particularly vicious today (and considering recent events…).

He feels as if he stops breathing for a moment.

“How’re you feeling?”

Stiles’ smile is small, tired, and hopeful. He’d put money down that it matches Chris’.

“I’ve been told by a reliable source that I’m doing better.”

Instead of feeling relieved, Stiles just feels more anxious. Chris had stopped walking, a foot away from his bed and Stiles wishes he could reach out, pull him closer, but Chris is on the side of Stiles’ dislocated shoulder. He looks down at Stiles’ hands, raises his eyebrows.

“Nice nails.”

Stiles holds up his left hand, nods, wondering if this is as anxiety-ridden and awkwardly not awkward for Chris as it is for him.

“Damn straight. Erica did them for me.”

He actually does like them. They’re black with gold glitter and bat stickers, how could he not? Erica’s were a matching black but with silver glitter and cat stickers. They both had needed something to take their minds off of… well, everything.

“She did a great job.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles can’t take his eyes off the glitter on his nails, the way it catches and sparkles under the hospital light. He’s trying to convince himself that he’s not afraid to look at Chris but he’s failing.

“I wanted to wait to visit until you could remember.”

His lungs kick back in with a sudden jolt and Stiles hadn’t even realized he’d stopped. There’s a splotch of paint on his knuckle.

“I want to, that is, can I—what do you remember about last night?”

Chris sounds nervous, Stiles can’t help but look up. His hands are in his pockets, thumbs tucked in with them. Stiles recalls his psychology professor lecturing about body language and how having one’s thumbs out was a sign of confidence. He’d thought it was bullshit at the time.

“Drunk-dialing you, Josh showing up, not much after that.”

A shaky breath comes out of Chris’ lips, he shifts on his feet, eyebrows drawn up and together, mouth set in a strange place between relieved and something like disappointment.

“Yeah,” Stiles says slowly, “Sorry about that I—”

“Don’t have to apologize… for that.”

Chris licks his lips and Stiles can’t help but wonder who caused the split in his lip, can’t help but want to lick it, cover it with his spit until it shines and doesn’t hurt. Stiles nods, mouth dry. Chris takes a faltering step.

“Would it be O.K. if we had that talk now?”

Stiles licks his own lips and looks down, conflicted. He wants to hear what Chris has to say, wants to hear anything that would make him forgive Chris, is afraid that what he will hear won’t be enough, is scared that this will be the end of it. He frowns, shoulders stiffening, causing his dislocated one to throb with renewed vigor. He wants reassurance, promises. Part of him doesn’t even particularly care if they’re false, if he knows them to be lies, he just wants, so much, to be back with Chris.

It’s been a while since he should have spoken. Stiles doesn’t have to look up to know that Chris’ shoulders have slumped.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, looks up. There’s a tiny almost not there glimmer of hope on Chris’ face. “I’d like that but…”

He falters, unsure, doesn’t know how to ask this. Chris’ face loses that hope. Stiles can’t help but blurt out, “Could you move to the other side of the bed first? I’d— I’d like to—this arm is kinda… useless.”

Chris nods, makes his way over to the other side of the bed, face taking on a guarded look. Stiles waits until Chris sits down in the chair that Erica left close to the bed.

“O.K.,” Stiles says, feeling better now that he could reach out and touch Chris if he needed to. “Now you can start talking.”

Chris looks up at Stiles with this fond, amused look that makes Stiles’ chest ache. He shifts in his seat, leans back, forward, makes two aborted motions with his arms like he’s reaching for Stiles then thinks better of it, his face spasms through several expressions before settling on this blank, distant look that scares Stiles.

“Victoria and I had been having… issues for a while before we moved to Beacon Hills,” he starts, voice low and filled with something Stiles refuses to name.

“Well,” he says, winces, “By that I mean that Victoria wanted to leave me. We were… separated before Allison finished her first week of classes. I convinced her to put off an official divorce until Allison was away at college but to be honest, we might as well have done it then, gotten it over with so we could move on but…”

Chris looks up at Stiles; eyebrows pulled together and up at the middle, eyes crinkled with some emotion in the spectrum of desperate. Stiles wants to hold him.

“I still loved her and I thought maybe… maybe if I had more time, I could fix it, fix us. I didn’t want to lose the mother of my child, my—I was in denial, living a delusion in which we still made sense together. She wasn’t though. Victoria knew that our time together was over; we weren’t the people we’d fallen in love with. We… had drifted apart and changed too much. She… made sure to correct me of my error.”

Stiles reaches out without meaning to, touches Chris’ cheek softly on instinct. The pained look he gets in return along with the way Chris leans into the touch reminds him too much of when he saw Victoria and Chris reunite. Chris had made the same face, Victoria had touched this same cheek.

Stiles burns with guilt he knows he should feel and possessiveness he doesn’t have the warrant to. Chris cups Stiles’ hand with both of his and lays them on the bed. Stiles hooks his thumb over his hand and rubs it against the back of Chris’ hand. Chris smiles, small, grieved.

“She really did try to kill herself. But it didn’t take. She bled, passed out, and even had this seizure. I drove to the hospital and they declared her dead. But she woke up in the morgue, called me and I came with a suitcase of her clothes, money, and some of the fake documents we keep just in case. She told me not to tell anyone, to go on acting like she was dead, told me that she was, that… all that was animating her was the monster. Stiles—she made it an order,” Chris says and the way it comes out makes Stiles shiver in some emotion he can’t name.

“Made me give my word not to tell anyone. She told me it was necessary for Allison’s safety. She said it was the last thing she’d ever ask me to do then… she left. She wasn’t supposed to come back.”

“So,” Stiles begins, a frown on his face. “You’re married but... separated from a woman who the state thinks is dead.”

Chris makes this face that’s halfway between amusement and disgust.

“I got the letter confirming our divorce the same day the morgue called to tell me they lost her body.”

Stiles looks down at their hands, marvels at how practiced, yet novel, how strange, yet familiar it feels to have Chris’ hands around his and tries not to laugh at the timing of that.

“That means I’ve been sleeping with a divorcé and not a married man.”

His fingers fidget with Chris’, thumb running absently over Chris’ index finger, his knuckle, the back of his hand, then back over the same path again.

“Not sure which one is hotter,” Stiles says in the hopes of alleviating some of the tension. Chris chuffs a short, humorless laugh, looks up at Stiles. He’s drawn to Chris’ face, the tension so evident in his body plain to see on his face.

“How about the man wondering if he’s still got a shot in hell with you?

The lack of confidence in his voice and the guarded hope that’s returned to Chris’ face is enough to ruin any misgivings that Stiles might have. He licks his lips, takes a fortifying breath, squeezes Chris’ hand, and talks.

“Hell, heaven, hospital room… It’s entirely possible he’s got a shot in all of them.”

Chris lets out a shaky breath, the tension visibly leaving his body. He doesn’t smile but Stiles does a little, tired smile for him.

“Under one condition.”

The tension returns to Chris’ body so fast that Stiles feels a little whiplash just watching it.

“What’s that?”

Stiles pulls his hand out of Chris’, wraps his fingers around his wrist firmly, looks Chris steadily in the eyes, and says, “No more pretending, no more lies, and especially no more seemingly dead exes.”

Chris nods and Stiles continues.

“I want all of it, OK? All of you. We do this then we’re ours, no one else’s.”

Moon above, this was jumping into the deep end, do not wade in, do not pass moderation, go directly into twenty feet of possibly shark-infested waters.

“You get me and I get you. Is that fair?”

Stiles would feel better if he wasn’t so serious about that last question.

“Can I ask something myself?”

“Sure.”

Stiles is positive that didn’t come out nearly as nonchalant as he intended it to.

“No more sleeping with other people?”

It’s heartbreaking how unsure that request sounds.

“The only person I want to sleep with is you. In any sense of the term.”

Chris’ voice is soft, pleading, when he says, “Please Stiles, give me your word.”

Stiles slides his hand down to cover Chris’ and says, as tenderly as he can, “You’ve got it… and anything else of me you could possibly want.”

His smile is small when he turns over his hand to curl his fingers around Stiles’. With more than a little certainty, Stiles knows this isn’t the end of this, knows that they both have a shittone to work through, not even counting the attack Victoria has launched against their pack but Stiles knows this is a good, if rocky, start.

“Hey Stiles?”

Stiles looks back up at Chris and grunts.

“Can I kiss you?

Stiles smiles slowly, with a little sly edge, he says, “Sure, if you help me escape from here.”

Chris gives Stiles his patented unamused look number four. Stiles laughs lightly, leans over, wraps the lapel of Chris’ jacket around his fingers, and pulls.

The small, almost goofy, smile Chris gives him is worth the pain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was SO fucking tempted to just end the chapter right before Chris explains or before Stiles gives his verdict. Like So. Damn. Tempted. to just leave y'all in the dark. I should get like a prize for not doing that. And also for not killing anyone (except that buck) yet.  
> Yet.  
> I haven't decided if anything else will die.  
> And I don't mean like one of the Victoria's pack members but one of the central characters.  
> I just sooooo want to kill one or more of them.  
> Preferably more.
> 
> And considering that this is Thursday and the story ends on Friday...  
> Yeah.  
> Just... let that digest for a moment.


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek, some prisoners, Carson, and a pizza delivery person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting so close to the end now, peeps. So flipping close. We've got the next chapter of Thursday, then Friday and after that we're basically just fucking done. Don't worry too much about big gaps between posting anymore. I've got like a three chapter buffer.  
> Just because I haven't been posting doesn't mean I haven't been writing. I'd apologize for the wait but I'm not all that sorry. I've been way busy. Like stupid busy.  
> Between my regular job, the end of school, sussing out moving, and my summer job at the Greater St. Louis Renaissance Faire, I haven't had much time for anything let alone sitting in front of a computer for several hours to type this all up and edit it to my liking. 
> 
> I haven't watched S3E1 yet so please hold off on the comments on that. Though, I doubt I'm going to get any comments since it's been two fucking months since I last posted. Time just keeps slipping away from me. Heh.

**Chris hasn’t come back yet** and Derek feels hypocritical for worrying. Allison keeps trying to reassure him that Stiles is OK, her dad can take care of him, but Derek isn’t convinced. It’s been long enough that the sun has set. What could Stiles and Chris have to talk about that takes this long? It’s been _hours_ with no word.

Upstairs, Danny and Allison fight over music, Isaac and Scott play-argue over a game, Lydia and Jackson are somewhere up there, quiet together, and Derek stands sentinel over the werewolf wonder twins in the basement.

The blond one keeps shifting, testing his bindings, trying hard not to look at Derek while the other one stares steadily at him with a sneer, silently challenging with his posture for Derek to do something stupid like break the ash line and beat his teeth down his throat. It’s pathetically ineffective.

Might work on Jackson, though, but he has always been too eager to defend himself against any perceived slight. That’s how he ended up getting buried six feet under by that therinthrope a while back. Derek isn’t hotheaded in that way. Life has been too thorough with stripping him of his dignity for that.

Heels hit heavy and far enough apart on the floor above him to be Erica. It’s almost rhythmically matched with Allison’s heartbeat. Derek doesn’t move, isn’t even sure if he’s blinking at this point, as the basement door opens and the steps change timber as Erica bounces down them.

The T.V. upstairs shouts C-C-C-COMBO over Isaac’s shout of victory and Scott’s groan of defeat.

Erica jumps the last four steps and skips over to the captives, picking up a staff along the way. She prods them with it. Blondie glares at her with open hostility. Apparently the idiot doesn’t know enough to be more frightened of the women in a pack than the men.

The brown one is more respectful of Erica, lowing his gaze and slumping out of his pugnacious posture. Apparently he knows better. Derek would almost put money on him being born, if he were a betting man. Which he isn’t, not after all the shit life has thrown at him. Blondie snaps at the staff, fangs out, and Erica laughs, nose crinkles, hair shifting around her shoulders and down her back like an accompaniment of amused snakes to her light giggle.

It reminds him all too much of Kate. Derek shifts; uncrossing his arms and throwing an unamused look at Erica when she says, “Feisty.”

He shakes his head and Erica pouts, twirling the staff absently before throwing it back in the pile of various wooden weapons. She slinks over to Derek in her now habitual flirty way when others can see her. Derek knows that there is nothing non-platonic between them but it could strategically be in their favor for Victoria’s pack to think Erica slept her way to second in command. They might underestimate her and Derek loves it when others underestimate Erica.

“You never let me have any fun,” she says while she trails her hand across his chest as she circles behind Derek to drape herself over him. Derek knows that this is all for show. Eighty percent show. Maybe seventy-two percent.

He stays silent, only a small shift back into her to let Erica know she is, as always, welcome in his personal space. It takes more effort than normal; the remembered taste of ash and perfume on the back of his tongue makes him feel less friendly.

Erica rests her chin on his shoulder. Derek can feel Erica’s hair slide against his arm. It’s more comforting than Derek would like to admit.

“I thought we might order some pizza. What would you like on yours? I was thinking some Supremes and a few Meat Lovers. Oh, and a couple veggie pizzas.”

Erica trails her fingers over his chest and Derek knows what she’s doing but lets her do it anyway.

“Get the cheesy breadsticks,” Derek says while reaching for his wallet. His arm brushes against her in the process, her body warm and strong behind him. He holds the wallet up. Erica bounces against him when she steps around and grabs his wallet. With a kiss on the cheek and a brilliant smile, she heads for the stairs.

“Don’t forget the garlic sauce,” Derek says in the same even voice he’d used when she was next to him.

“You got it, boss,” Erica cheerily shouts, flouncing up the stairs.

 

A little while later, Derek shifts, extra agitated for no reason he can think of. It’s coming through the pack bond but that’s as much as he can tell.

“Derek, someone’s here,” Boyd says. He can feel the tensions rise at that; their already high levels of stress increasing to the point where Derek’s back starts to form knots. He rolls his shoulders and starts to take a step towards the stairs.

“Did you really think they’d just leave us here?” Blondie asks, sneer firm on his face.

“No,” Derek says, “But you did.”

Blondie doesn’t say anything. The brown one gets a sour look on his face. Derek starts walking again; he’s gotten what he needs from them. He doesn’t have to ask them what that says about their pack, their alpha. They’re already thinking it.

“Your pack would do the same as us,” the brown one mutters.

“I wouldn’t leave my pack behind.”

Derek doesn’t stop; he’s almost to the door. He can hear Lydia ask if they should send someone to check up on Chris and Stiles. Jackson says that they should leave them alone. Scott and Isaac have paused their game. Derek is swaddled in his pack. Boyd and Danny greet him at the door. Scott is whispering to Allison, telling her everything she can’t hear with her human senses while Erica says she’ll get Allison’s favorite bow.

Stiles and Chris’ scents are everywhere. It’s almost- almost- like they’re both here.

Isaac falls into step behind him and Derek is comforted by the even sound of his heart even if the reason Isaac can be so calm is because the one person he’s afraid of died the week he became a werewolf.

Everything is quiet in the Argent home save for the rhythms of feet, hearts, lungs, and Scott’s quiet voice.

He knew it was a bad idea to have almost everyone he cared about under one roof.

Danny opens the door for him and Derek tries not to think about what he did to Stiles against that door not too long ago. He wonders if the pack can smell it, can sense how desperate, scared, he was, and how absolutely full of regret he is now for what he did. Stiles deserves better than Derek. That’s why he’s with Chris. Chris is better than Derek could ever hope to be.

Derek steps out onto the porch; half wondering if Isaac will ever come to his senses like Stiles did and leave him for a better man. The cool night air blows the sounds of cicadas and frogs at him along with the scents of werewolf and Victoria’s pack.

Carson, standing again at the edge of the lawn, smiles sadly at Derek, hands in his pockets. The porch and streetlights look foreign on him the same way they don’t on Derek. It’s obvious to Derek that Carson was raised to be a creature the way Derek was taught to be a man. Either way doesn’t ever quite fit but it’s the only thing either of them knows how to be.

“My alpha has sent me to negotiate the return of two betas.”

Derek leans against the doorframe. He can hear his pack behind him and a car coming down the street, radio blasting.

“What does she have that I could possibly want?”

“She says—”

The car pulls into the driveway, the radio stops. Carson takes a step back, his eyes flashing yellow and orange-red. Derek resists the urge to bite him like his rankled instincts scream to do. He’d heard once that it could cancel out what another did. One bite to force the change on another were-type, one to take it away and allow someone to take their natural form again.

Like curing poison with poison.

“She says peace, Alpha Hale.”

The pizza delivery person is gathering the boxes of pizza together, humming to herself. Derek doesn’t say anything.

“Hale house. Ten a.m. I know you’ll be there,” Carson says before backing away from the Argent house. The pizza person gets out of her car and Derek listens to Carson’s footsteps over Isaac’s heartbeat and Scott’s steady voice.

Allison’s breathing is uneven. She’s upset and Derek understands why. He smiles at the woman carrying the pizza. It smells good but he wants none of it.  He never wanted to put Allison in this position, never wanted to force her to choose between her family and the pack. Derek knows which he’d pick. He hates that it’s necessary for him to doubt her but he knows who he’d pick in her position. New pack, new family, doesn’t take away someone’s want to just be held by their mother.

Derek signs the receipt and takes the large stack of boxes from her.

“There’s more in the car,” she says and Derek nods because there’s always more: more to do, more to take, more to suffer, more to struggle and fight over and eventually lose.

Isaac squeezes Derek’s shoulder with his free hand when he passes and takes the second stack of boxes from her. They set the boxes down in the kitchen and his pack converges on them like hungry piranhas with a fresh corpse.

Derek piles some food on his plate and sits down at the other end of the table from where Chris sat just a few days ago when Derek gave him the news. He doesn’t eat, just sips at his drink and watches his pack laugh, talk over each other, and fight over the last piece of Meat Lovers. Erica picks the green peppers off her pizza and throws them into Scott’s mouth, laughing. He can tell that she’s holding Allison’s hand under the table.

A hand pinches his thigh and Derek resists the urge to jump. He turns his head, looks at Isaac with raised eyebrows. Isaac smiles, smoothing the spot he pinched and gestures with his head at Derek’s plate.

“Did you forget how to eat?” he asks, hand still resting on Derek’s thigh. Derek feels a central point of heat right there, pulsing and throbbing, under Isaac’s hand. He can’t tell if it’s from the pinch or just the warmth of Isaac’s touch. Isaac leans closer.

“Alright, I’ll remind you how,” he says, raising his hand to Derek’s mouth. “Just open your mouth…” His thumb runs lightly over Derek’s lips. They tingle from the touch. “And put something in it.”

Isaac smiles in a way that Derek can only describe as dirty. The touch feels inappropriate for the table, surrounded by his pack, but he can’t say no, tell him to stop, he’s not even sure he wants Isaac to. Instead he leans over and kisses him. Right there. Right in front of everyone. Isaac smiles the whole way through it and Derek’s heart flutters.

Jackson says “Ewww” and grumbles in discomfort. Allison snickers. Lydia says something like she’s reading off the list of ingredients on processed food and Scott groans.

“Not you guys, too. Seriously,” he says.

Danny replies with, “Yeah, way to rub it in,” but it’s said in such a way that Derek can hear the smile.

Boyd and Erica start singing, “Isaac and Derek sitting in a tree h-u-m-p-i-n-g!”

Yeah, Derek thinks, picking up his slice of pizza and glaring at Erica while trying not to smile, he’s got so much more to lose now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, when I write the Derek chapters, sometimes I have to smoke to get the taste of ash in my mouth before I can get into his mind. I'm not sure exactly how depressing that is but yeah. The smell and taste of smoke really help when writing Derek.


	55. Thursday Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles, a wheelchair, Chris Argent, and a freaking out McCall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that this is literally novel length? I can't. I just looked it up and I have long ago past the thresh hold for novel-hood. Look at this, my first novel as an adult and it's about werewolves, queer people, and infidelity. I'm telling you they saw this one coming in primary school.

**Stiles sighs in relief** when the hospital doors slide open and Chris wheels him out. It’s dark and cools the way only California spring nights ever are. He knows it’s not particularly safe but it took twenty minutes and some hardcore pleading complete with promises of his first born (ha-ha, right, him having children) to get Mrs. McCall to let him outside.

So her concern may be a little justified what with Stiles’ track record of escaping but it’s not like he ever went far. OK, a Taco Bell once but he was hungry and everywhere else was closed.

Chris parks Stiles just out of the light from the hospital entrance, putting on the brakes for his wheelchair.

“I’m glad Dread is adjusting well. Do you want to keep her? Cause I was thinking my dad might like her. You know, they said it was a good idea to get one’s parent a pet when they leave the nest. It was either that or like a hobby, I don’t remember.”

Stiles shivers a little bit, then shivers harder. Chris shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over him.

“If that’s what you want to do.”

Stiles frowns, fuzzily pleased to have Chris’ jacket on him. It smells like Chris- gardenias and gun oil and sweat and a little bit like coffee. There are a few cat hairs on it already.

“Now you’re gonna be cold.”

Chris shrugs.

“I’m not the one on blood thinners.”

Stiles’ whole body must hurt but he’s so full of painkillers that he just doesn’t care. He reaches for Chris and Chris obediently moves close enough for Stiles to touch if he wants. Stiles knows they still have a _lot_ to work through but Stiles is… is so. High. He doesn’t give a shit right now.

He tugs on Chris’ shirt.

“Hey,” he says with a goofy smile, “Come here.”

Chris crouches down beside Stiles’ chair, a small weary but fond look on his face. Stiles can still hear the bustle of the hospital from here but the moon and night air give him a sense of false privacy.

“I’m not helping you escape,” Chris says flatly.

Stiles snorts, runs his hand over Chris’ shoulder and squeezes his neck.

“You ever think I was just glad I could do this again?” he asks while pulling Chris close enough to kiss.

Chris’ lips are just as dry as they ever were and Stiles is glad that they haven’t changed. He licks the split softly, knowing how tender a busted lip could be. Chris makes a noise, his hand coming to rest on Stiles’ knee. It feels good. Fuck, it all feels good. He can smell and taste and feel Chris and he’s not sure he could ever want anything else but this. Stiles can’t help the soft smile, running his hand through Chris’ hair. He’s dry and soft and so familiar.

“Besides,” Stiles says, pulling back enough to see Chris’ face. “I have Scott for escaping.”

He grins and Chris gives him his unamused look No. 4. Sometimes Stiles thinks that one is just for him. He laughs, curling his fingers in Chris’ hair, not bothering to ignore the squeezing feeling of affection around his heart. Chris makes a noise when Stiles tugs him close again to kiss, his fingers tightening on Stiles’ good knee.

Stiles could just kiss Chris all night long. Touch his lips to his and taste his dry mouth, wetting it with his spit. Chris is sexy, Stiles won’t deny it, he wouldn’t even try, but it was this that he liked the most. Next to waking up with Chris’ head on his chest, a small pile of drool cooling on his sternum.

“Man,” Stiles says, leans back, a happy grin that won’t leave on his face. “I can see now why Scott wants to marry in. If Allison is anything like you.”

Chris pulls back, shock written on his face. It takes Stiles about seven seconds longer than it should to realize he’s said that last part out loud.

“What.”

Chris almost makes that a question. Stiles winces, licks his lips, smile falling from his face.

“Can we just pretend I didn’t say that out loud?”

Chris glares half-heartedly at him then stands up, nearly vibrating in place. Stiles can tell he’s one word away from pacing and shouting and throwing innocent vases at walls.

“My daughter is getting married and no one told me. When did this happen?”

Chris takes a step, stops, looking struck with something hard and uncomfortable, hisses, “Is she pregnant?”

Stiles winces again, body tensing up. The drugs they gave him momentarily overcome as he watches Chris’ hands fist. He’s never hit Stiles before. Sure, he’s been angry plenty of times but Stiles hasn’t felt unsafe around him for a very, very, long time. Chris won’t hit him, he tells himself even as he unconsciously braces for it.

“It hasn’t yet,” Stiles says, raising his good arm in a gesture of harmlessness. “None of it. No engaged Allison. No buns in _any_ ovens.”

Chris won’t hit him, won’t hurt him in anger. That was always Derek’s thing. Never on purpose, never with any true malice but still. Stiles curses Derek and their wicked unhealthy relationship for making Stiles have these kind of reactions even when he trusts Chris so completely.

“Scott just told me he was thinking of proposing. That’s all. Now just… come here.”

Stiles won’t deny that the end of that sentence came off whiney. He’s a whiner. He whinges and bemoans and whines. He’s never denied it to himself. Stiles reaches out. Chris is just far enough away that Stiles barely manages to wrap his fingers around Chris’. He sighs and steps closer to Stiles, bending over to press his face against the top of Stiles’ head. Chris’ fingers tighten around Stiles’.

“Don’t do that to me, Stiles.”

Stiles relaxes, shoulder throbbing out of time with his knee. Chris takes a deep breath and Stiles tilts his head back, feeling a twinge of pain from the wound there, tries to smile reassuringly at Chris.

“I’m not old enough to be a grandfather.”

Stiles snorts and runs his hand up Chris’ arm.

“You’d make a pretty sexy grandpa.”

Chris gives him a flat look. Stiles tries to grin.

“Hey, do you think Allison would have a werewolf baby? Klingon forehead, sideburns, and all?”

Chris groans.

“You’re not helping.”

Chris rubs his face with his free hand. Stiles squeezes the one he still has in his grasp. He blinks and waits for an answer.

“No, but really,” Stiles says. “Would Allison have a werepuppy? Like do they just pop out all fangy even if she’s human?”

Chris doesn’t remove his hand from his face when he replies in his ‘I’m only being patient because it’s you’ voice.

“As far as we’ve been able to tell, the werewolf trait is matrilineal.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. “So it’s like mitochondria.”

“I need a smoke.”

Stiles snickers.

“You know with Erica in the equation, you could actually be a werewolf granddaddy.”

Chris glares at Stiles while he reaches into his jacket pocket. Stiles can feel his hand against his side for the moment it takes Chris to pull out his pack of cigarettes. There’s a slight breeze of air that’s still a tiny bit warm from the day. Stiles hooks his fingers into the waistband of Chris’ jeans. He can feel warm skin against his fingers and every small movement Chris makes shifts him against Stiles’ knuckles.

Stiles would like nothing more than to curl up in bed with Chris and sleep away the next century. Chris lights up and Stiles tilts his head back as far as it will go.

“Hey,” he says, “Gimme.”

Chris raises his eyebrows but holds the open pack out to Stiles. Stiles grins and shakes his head.

“No, take a hit, don’t exhale until you’ve kissed me.”

He pulls the pack back, eyebrows becoming one with his hairline.

“You want to shotgun a cigarette?”

Stiles licks his lips and nods, pulse bumping against his chest, arm, and leg. Chris doesn’t move his eyes off of Stiles, just brings the cigarette to his lips, inhales, and bends down to press his lips to Stiles. He exhales and Stiles inhales, smoke filling his lungs. Stiles licks into Chris’ mouth until he coaxes Chris’ tongue out. The smoky taste of cigarette mixes well with Chris’ usual taste of coffee and saliva. Chris pulls back and Stiles looks up, breathing smoke out.

“That,” Stiles says, smiling deliriously, “That was just as hot as I thought it would be.”

Chris takes another drag on his cigarette, breaths out smoke and the words, “Maybe someday I’ll let you shotgun me.”

Stiles snorts and steals the cigarette from Chris’ hand.

“You know, with our lives that has _so_ many potential meanings.” Stiles breathes in smoke. “Few of which are good.” And exhales.

Chris laughs in a way that almost sounds nihilistic. Almost.

 

 

“Extra marshmallows!” Stiles shouts before leaning back in his hospital bed. He pulls Chris’ jacket off his shoulders when the sounds of Chris’ feet meld into the general noise of the hospital. Stiles leans back until he can gingerly rest his head against the bed. It’s still pretty damn tender.

He plays with the controls on the bed and almost wishes he had one of these adjustable beds at home. Chris probably would be cool with him getting one. Stiles can think of a lot of things they can do with an adjustable bed.

There’s a knock at his door, which is weird since it’s open and no one knocks on hospital doors. Stiles tenses, thinking of the dozens of possible scenarios that could turn out bad from this.

“Hey, got a moment?”

He relaxes, turning towards the door.

“I’ve got nothing but since no one will let me leave.”

Stiles grins at Scott’s mom, her face moving from concerned to momentarily annoyed. She takes a couple steps into the room.

“OK,” she says, taking a big breath, “I’m going to ignore that for now because there’s something much more important I need to discuss with you but don’t think that doesn’t mean I’m not going to give you a talking to about how important it is for you to stay here.”

Her face has cemented itself into outright worry. Stiles is back to being concerned. He hasn’t seen her look like this since the last time he was hospitalized.

“What’s—”

“Don’t think I’m spying or trying to be intrusive but what I saw really worries me, Stiles. I know you’re—”

“Mrs. McCall, what’re you—”

She talks over him

“An adult but that doesn’t mean it’s… consensual and I just want to—”

“I don’t know—”

“Make sure that you’re OK.”

“What you’re—”

“Safe. I know I’m not you’re mother, Stiles, but I care about you.”

Mrs. McCall is pacing now, worry so deeply ingrained on her face that Stiles doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Mellissa,” Stiles exclaims softly.

She stops and breaths, visibly steadies herself.

“I saw you two kissing.”

Stiles blinks. Oh. That makes so much sense. Of course she did. _Oh._ Stiles just has to have this kind of luck.

“Are you two… he’s not—coercing you, is he?”

She looks revolted at the very idea and Stiles is, too.

“Oh. Oh, no. Nonononono.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, listens to the bustle of people. Someone in scrubs walks past the open door, wheeling a cart.

“We’re, ah, we’re… dating.”

Scott’s mom nods, lips pressed together. She looks a little sick.

“How—how long has this… between you two… been going on?”

Stiles winces, chews on his lips, wonders where Chris is with the coffee and cocoa.

“A little over a year.”

She mutters something in Spanish, pinching the bridge of her nose, elbow resting on the arm she has across her.

“Does Scott know that you’re—you’re dating his girlfriend’s dad?”

Stiles nods. She drops her arms.

“And he’s OK with this,” she asks in a flat tone.

“Yeah, he is.”

And wow, is that true. Stiles knows how messed up the whole thing is but it gets a special poignancy when someone else finds out about it.

“What about your father?”

“He’s… less than thrilled about it but I think he’s accepted that I am an adult and I can make my own decisions.”

“He’s twice your age, Stiles.”

“I know.”

“He is literally old enough to be your father. Doesn’t he—doesn’t he work _with_ your father?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

She shakes her head.

“That can’t be healthy.”

Stiles gives her a cool look. He doesn’t particularly mean to but he’s tired of everyone getting up in his business and deciding what he should and shouldn’t do. He’s a grown ass adult and he deserves to make decisions for himself. He gets to decide what is and is not healthy for him and after everything he’s been through with Scott and Derek and every other fucking beastie in the area... Stiles just flat out deserves it.

“Do you—” She crosses her arms, fidgets, uncrosses them, and then recrosses them the other way. “Are you… happy? Does he treat you well?”

Stiles sighs, unclenching his jaw.

“Yeah, He makes me happier than I’ve been in a long, long time. I—I love him, OK? Happy? And, wow, I can’t believe I really said that out loud. I haven’t even told him yet.” Stiles laughs. “But I do. I am totally and stupidly in love with him.”

“Oh, Stiles…” her tone is soft. She steps up to the bed, uncrossing her arms along the way, and runs her hand over his head.

“Why didn’t anyone ever warn me that love was scary? I mean I want to spend the rest of my _life_ with him – however long that will be- and he’s just… Chris is just so great to me even with all the shit we’ve been through.”

Stiles looks up at Mrs. McCall, wondering momentarily if it’s too late for him to give back his grown up card.

“I love him. I really do. Why does that scare me? It doesn’t make any _sense_.”

She shushes him, a strained smile on her face.

“And he loves you, too?”

Stiles nods, takes a big breathe, gathers his wits about himself.

“We’ve never… We’ve never said it but sometimes I can just _see_ it in his face. He looks at me like I’m something important, wonderful. How—how do I deal with that? I’m just Stiles.”

Stupid, spazzy, cripple with a cane and an overwhelming bitterness towards everything. There’s nothing special about him. There’s never been anything special about him. Stiles isn’t important. Scott’s important, Chris is important, Allison and Lydia and Jackson and Derek and Danny and Erica and Isaac… they’re all important. But not him. He’s just… Stiles. What does Stiles amount to in a town full of werewolves, hunters, immune geniuses, and ex-lizard men? He’s just one tiny human. There is nothing special about him.

“You are, Stiles. You’re a wonderful young man and he better know how lucky he is.”

Stiles bows his head, scared but strangely comforted by Scott’s mom’s touch. Sometimes with her, it’s almost like having a mother again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am LEGIT excited about the next chapter.  
> Like I cannot WAIT until y'all read it. When I finished writing it I did a little dance on the roof and then ate cake. Oh, and I laughed and smiled and cackled some.  
> I am so excited about posting it that I'm not following my posting schedule and posting this shit before I planned to. This is going to completely ruin the buffer I created but I AM SO NOT SORRY.  
> We are Soooooo near the end! Friday is the last, like, actual day. 
> 
> ARE YOU SCARED YET?  
> You should be.  
> Oh, speaking of: check for updated tags. That's literally the only warning I'm giving you.  
> But seriously, check the tags. If you have any questions about it then you can comment below or hit up my tumblr at monstertesk.tumblr.com.  
> Oh, find something EXTREMELY fluffy and lighthearted to read. I'm telling you now you'll need it for the next chapter.


	56. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is life or death and no one gets to choose which one of the two they end up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, legit, my internet crashed and refused to come up for, like, an hour when I tried to post this the first time.
> 
> I'm serious about having something fluffy ready before reading this one, peeps. I really, really, am. No chapter that was this fun to write will be easy for you to read. If I've done my job right.  
> My unofficial title for this chapter is Some Unholy War. Like the Amy Winehouse song.

**Over the sounds of feet crushing** the detritus on the forest floor that remind Derek of watching squirrels fight over territory in the spring, someone howls. His feet kick up dust, leaves, and the smell of plant life decaying as he follows the scents of Lily of the Valley, sweat, and the musk of werewolf.

Victoria is trying to lure him away from the majority of his pack, as if distance from them will make him weaker. The howl turns into a scream and Derek isn’t sure if it’s one of his or not. He hopes not.

An unfamiliar body hurtles into Derek’s line of sight, bent in a limp “J” shape until it hits a tree. The dry crack of the tree compliments the sounds of crushing bones. He has time to track the path the body took back to the flash of Scott’s fangs, blood shining on his arms like torn latex gloves and Allison’s perch in the tree above him, crossbow trained towards rustling and the sounds of Erica’s taunting laugh before Victoria’s scent takes him over a roll in the land.

It was almost ridiculous how easily the Virginia pack fell for Erica’s teasing (which led them into Allison’s range of fire and Scott’s brutish strength) and Isaac’s helpless and scared act (that earned them a laced bullet from Lydia’s rifle). Victoria’s pack is shamefully underprepared and disorganized. It’s enough for Derek to wonder if Victoria prepared them at all with how easily his much smaller pack is taking them down.

He can’t help but think that either she underestimated them or doesn’t really want to win. Neither of those options bode well.

Victoria comes into sight, cutting across a small creak, the loudness of her and Derek’s feet covering up Jackson’s lighter ones.

She stops in a clearing, turns, and faces him. Derek steps past the ring of young trees that are still older than him and watches her smile, so sure that she has him now. Victoria probably thinks he can’t hear the other werewolf hidden from sight by the brush behind her. She thinks she has him outnumbered.

Derek is filled with a sadness like future regret. He doesn’t want to kill her, doesn’t want to see anybody else dead. There are already too many people grieving in Beacon Hills. Victoria raises her arms, hands parallel with her hips, fingers spread wide.

“You’ve caught me,” she says, that small smile still on her face. “Now what?”

Derek waits to hear the light tapping noise that will let him know Jackson is in place.

“Give up.”

He wants her to listen, wants it so bad. Allison has already had to live through her mother killing herself once; he doesn’t want to be the weapon she uses for it a second time. Victoria takes a step closer. Derek stands his ground.

“Or what? You’ll kill me? Take my pack? Just you against… us?”

Carson steps out of his hiding spot, near tangible sorrow on his face, Gary a few feet behind him. Ah, that was a little bit of a surprise. Gary advances past Victoria. Derek hears Jackson lightly scratch at the bark twice. Derek flicks his fingers three times for Jackson to stay hidden.

“Don’t make me do this, Victoria.”

There’s another set of light scratching over Derek’s other shoulder. Four times. Danny. He hadn’t even heard him coming. Derek shifts his feet and Victoria’s smile becomes brittle. Allison has made that same face countless times. Mostly at Erica before they got out of their cat fight phase.

“So cocksure, Derek. You young people always are.”

Derek doesn’t point out her hypocrisy; he doesn’t think it would help. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t have the words to diffuse this. He’s not like Stiles; Derek couldn’t talk his way out of anything, much less this. Though, he doesn’t think even Stiles could diffuse this, considering… Considering everything.

“Let’s see if we can teach you some humility, young man.”

Gary grins, displaying his teeth as he shifts, and takes a run at Derek. Danny full body checks him from the side, sending Gary spinning like a discus. He snarls, landing on all fours, turns up tracks of soil and torn clumps of grass as he runs at Danny.

Carson’s steps are unsure as a teen’s first few moves in a dance they didn’t want to do to begin with. Jackson’s quick, purposeful tread as he moves in front of Derek are a strangely apt juxtaposed posturing to them.

Carson shifts, his face elongates in a way werewolf faces just don’t, eyes flickering yellow and orange-red. He heaves, displaying more teeth than a beta would have. Derek feels sick just looking at him.

Jackson makes the first move. He misses, Carson dancing out of the way. Danny and Gary are still fighting, now out of Derek’s line of sight. Carson leads Jackson away, his face still shifting like it can’t decide which form to take. The wrongness of it flows through Derek so strongly he’s afraid it’s going to affect the rest of the pack.

“This can still end peacefully.”

Victoria sneers at him.

“There’s no such thing as peace for the monsters, Derek. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

Derek swallows the urge to throw up and shifts. The bite is a gift. No matter how it’s given, it’s something precious. The people who are lucky enough to receive it are blessed. Derek is revolted. To think he gave it to her, accident or not, and that’s what she thinks of it… He wishes he could make her understand, make her see the bite as the good thing it is.

Jackson crashes, skidding across the forest floor in front of Derek. He shakes his head, stands up, bares his teeth, and runs back to where he was thrown from. Derek can hear the shots of Lydia’s gun, the whiz of Allison’s arrows, Scott’s breathing, Danny’s grunts as he fights Gary, and Isaac’s fast but steady heartbeat. Derek grounds himself in them, finds strength and gives it in return. He won’t let Victoria destroy his family.

“We decide how we live. You chose this.”

Victoria’s face becomes furious, mouth spasming between a smile and a snarl.

“I didn’t pick this. I didn’t choose to be this abomination. _You_ make me this way.”

She runs at him and Derek braces.

Victoria pulls a knife before she reaches him and throws it. Derek tries to dodge but isn’t very successful. It hits him in the shoulder, buries deep into the muscle and grazes bone. It burns and it shouldn’t, not like this. It sears through his whole body, whiting from impact out. She laced it. He can feel the change take him; he can’t stop it like this, not with wolfsbane running through his body. Derek grits his teeth and moves just how his mom taught him to do when his older cousins used to bully him. He uses his good arm and the weight of himself to throw Victoria when she tries to slash out his throat.

He’s sloppy. She’s sloppy. This whole damn thing is sloppy.

The tree she hits vibrates with the impact, letting loose pinecones and needles like some demented wintery coconut tree. Victoria stands, brushes herself off, and takes another run at him. Derek can still hear his pack fighting, grunts, growls, and Erica’s giggle. She takes to this violence thing like a bird to the air. He pulls the knife out of his shoulder, holds it like he would a steak knife, and waits, bouncing his balance from one foot to the other. He’s sure Stiles and Chris would have something to say about how he holds the knife but right now all he can do is try to guess Victoria’s next move. She’s not acting like herself and that makes this so much harder.

She lunges at him. Derek jumps away, slashing with the knife. It cuts through her clothes and now Derek can see far more of Allison’s mom than he ever wanted to see. She tears the rest of the shirt off and throws it to the ground next to her.

There’s a crash to Derek’s right, a laugh that Derek doesn’t recognize, a gurgle, and the snapping of tree and bone.

Danny, no.

Victoria snarls out a grin, kicks out at Derek while he’s distracted. He jumps and hears another crash, this one to his left. Jackson roars followed by the sounds of claws through flesh. Derek lands on his hands, kicks at Victoria’s chest with both feet. All the air leaves her lungs at the same time he hears her ribs crack and break. While she’s in the air, Derek lands on his feet and runs after her.

Lydia is screaming, her rifle going off. Jackson shouts her name and runs towards her, just at the edge of Derek’s line of sight. He’s hurt bad but Carson hasn’t made a noise or moved since Jackson howled.

Victoria is still moving, breathe rattling in her chest. It sounds like the time Stiles broke the garbage disposal in the sink. Sharp, wet, grating noises come out of her and Derek is sure that bone has punctured something vital in her. Victoria’s back is bent strangely. Derek hesitates above her, knife now in hand, listening to his pack.

Scott grunts followed by a crash. Allison tells him good job. Erica, from the sounds of it, is using those Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes to great effect. Danny is just barely breathing, sort of dragging something, maybe. Isaac is gasping, small pained sounds coming from him while Boyd talks slowly. It sounds like he’s helping Isaac. Lydia is hissing between her teeth, the sounds of loading her rifle barely louder than her. Jackson sounds like he’s fighting two different people and not so well. He shouts for an assist but Derek can tell help will be a while.

Victoria smiles, blood painting her lips and staining her teeth. She tries to laugh. Her chest moves unevenly, bones that should move together grinding in opposite directions or simply immobile, inverted into her soft insides. Many of them have broken the skin, jutting out like the sun-bleached wood of a wrecked ship. Victoria’s eyes flicker between red, purple, and her human blue. It makes Derek feel sick. He brings down his full weight and strength on the knife, pinning her to the ground by her belly. She gasps, eyes widening. Derek can practically hear them lose their red. She’s heaving around the knife, little high pitched whimpers leaving her mouth, her body morphing between human, beta, and alpha.

“Surrender,” he says over the sounds of Scott yelling Danny’s name. “And I’ll let you see your daughter whenever you want.”

The knife won’t kill her but Derek still feels horrible just saying it. It’s the only leverage he actually has.

“And,” Victoria says, rolling her tongue through the blood filling her mouth, “If I do-on’t?”

Derek twists the knife both literally and figuratively. It scrapes against the dirt on the ground and Victoria’s spine.

“I’ll tell her what you did to Scott and Erica. Do you think she’d forgive you after all this and that?”

Victoria whimpers again, fingers clutching at the dirt around her, tears in her eyes.

“Sh-she’s grown int- a, a stro-ong young w-woman.” She smiles, tears wetting the dirt on the side of her face into mud.

“I missed it,” she says, baring her neck. “I missed it.”

She doesn’t make a noise when Derek bites down.

“I missed her,” she gasps, her whole body seizing. A cold washing sensation like drinking ice water with an empty stomach on a hot day flows through Derek and out to his pack and his new betas. The fighting stops.

It’s too late, though.

Derek can feel it, hear it. Victoria passes out. Derek takes the knife out of her and runs. She’ll live.

He passes Scott talking softly to Danny who’s sitting against a tree, hands cradling his stomach, thick pink ribbons peeking out over his arms and hands, blood staining his skin and clothes a rusty brown. He dodges Allison, her first aid pack swinging wildly as she runs towards them. Erica crashes through the woods, heading the same way as him. He sees Isaac leaning against Boyd, slowly making their way towards Jackson. He can’t wait for them. For any of them.

Derek vaults a fallen tree and he’s there. Too late.

Too late.

He’s always too late.

“No,” Lydia groans.

Her hands, her body, are covered in blood. She’s got a nasty gash over her eye. Or where her eye was, he can’t tell at this point. There’s too much blood and hair and dirt over the wound. She’s rocking back and forth, hugging the body to her. She croons Jackson’s name, smoothing his hair away from his face, smearing more blood and dirt onto him. There are leaves and twigs stuck to the both of them. Lydia hiccoughs, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and presses her face into Jackson’s hair.

Derek stands there. He doesn’t know what to do. It’s too late. He’s always too late. Gary groans and moves a few feet from Lydia. He shakes his head, manages to sit up. Erica calmly walks over to him, kneels by his side, and punches him in the face. He falls back down, weakly trying to protect himself. She keeps punching. His head caves in and Lydia is hyperventilating. Erica keeps going, keeps punching. Derek just stands there.

“Not you,” Lydia is saying. “We had a deal, remember? You can’t—”

Boyd walks over to Erica. She won’t stop, her hands fisted together. Lydia whines, body shaking.

“You promised. Jackson, stop—You can’t do this to me.”

Boyd grabs Erica’s hands. She struggles. Derek can see the tears in her eyes now. Isaac makes a move towards Lydia. Derek stops him, shakes his head. Boyd wraps his arms around Erica and they both curl up on the ground. Derek takes a step towards Lydia, hesitates, and keeps walking. Boyd is sobbing into Erica’s chest, she’s crying quietly, her chin on the top of his head.

Derek wants nothing more than to be able to curl up like them, with them, and Isaac, to grieve and comfort in turns but he has to do this for Lydia. For Jackson.

Derek kneels next to Lydia. She’s saying, “No,” and, “You can’t,” over and over again, still rocking. Jackson stares sightlessly up at her. The hole in his chest smells like fresh meat and mud. Derek wraps his hand around Lydia’s arm and says her name softly. She flinches, shakes her head. He says her name again, pulling gently on her arm.

She slides into him then, curling her small arms around his neck. Lydia shudders, pressing her face into his neck. She’s sticky all over; some of the blood on her dried enough to be tacky. Soon it will harden and flake off.

“He said he’d never leave me, Derek,” she says, curling her whole body into his lap. Derek sits back, cradling her. They’re both going to smell like Jackson’s blood for days. “He promised.”

Derek shushes her, holding her tight.

“He _promised._ ”

Her face is sticking to his neck, a twig digging into his hurt shoulder. Derek looks up at Isaac.

“Go check on Danny,” he says, jaw tight. Isaac hesitates, looking between Jackson’s body, Lydia, and Derek.

“ _Now._ ”

Isaac takes off into the woods. Lydia is dragging her nails into Derek’s skin, scratching down his chest. He doesn’t stop her. He throws everything he has into comforting Lydia.

Derek listens to Erica and Boyd cry together, Isaac’s feet crash through the woods, Scott saying everything is going to be OK, that it’s over now.

“He promised,” she sniffles.

Derek can’t take his eyes off of Jackson. He won’t move, won’t breath, won’t do anything ever again except rot.

“He promised,” Lydia keeps saying.

“I know,” Derek says, rubbing her back in tiny circles, “I know.”

It always feels like betrayal when the people one loves dies but he doesn’t know how to tell her this.

Lydia moans, curling up even tighter.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says into her strawberry hair, meaning ever word of it, “I’m so sorry.”

She just shakes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that was fun! Anyway, I'm gonna go play around in the woods and make funnel cakes for the weekend. See y'all when I get back maybe!
> 
> Comment or I'll kill off more characters. I could totally pull a Hamlet on you all. It'd be hilarious. 
> 
>  
> 
> Lol. Jk. Sort of. Mostly.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something Stiles has been fighting for and against for a longer time than he'd like to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Don't ever make me write something like this again. Well, technically, I made myself do it but I didn't like it and I'm blaming you.

**Stiles doesn’t pass** all of the tests they throw at him for his concussion but they release him anyway. It’s not his fault that he’s physically incapable of passing the tests they require. He can’t change that anymore than he can change the fact that he needs his right arm to walk.

His doctor writes him up a bunch of prescriptions to go along with the boat load he already takes, Scott’s mom promises to check in on him and he’s relatively relieved that she didn’t even bat an eye when he gave her the Argent address instead of his dad’s. Everything seems to be turning out well for him now. Maybe even the pack’s “negotiations” are going smoothly.

The pharmacist mangles Stiles’ name and Chris moves to the pick up window without being asked. Stiles hums to himself and wheels back and forth in wide arcs in the hospital’s pharmacy with his good arm, listening with one ear as Chris asks about interactions, side effects, and dosage. He always likes to grill the pharmacists about Stiles’ drugs.

Stiles usually just wikis it but Chris has this completely irrational distrust of Wikipedia that Stiles thinks is cute, misguided, but cute. Chris walks back over to him and Stiles grins. He sets Stiles’ new bag of pills in Stiles’ lap and grabs hold of the wheelchair’s handles. Stiles lets him wheel him out of the pharmacy, simply glad to be done with the place.

“First thing I’m gonna do is take a shower,” Stiles says, looking around for the SUV.

Chris wheels him down a row, heading towards the back of the lot. Figures he’d choose a spot less trafficked.

“You can’t take a shower, not without both arms.”

“Alright, _we’re_ gonna take a shower. Or a bath. Both sound good.”

“Who says I want to take a shower with you?” Chris asks while parking Stiles’ wheelchair next to the back passenger side tire of his very much conspicuous SUV. The dents and claw marks he hasn’t bothered to fix kind of ruin the whole point in getting the nondescript car in the first place. Chris digs in his pocket for the keys. Stiles doesn’t have to look to know he’s smiling.

“Are you saying you _don’t_ want to put your hands all over my wet, naked body?”

Stiles hears the SUV doors unlock. He grabs his loot bag from the pharmacy and tucks it into his sling, right on top of his arm.

“I’m a little hurt, considering the effort I put into seducing you,” Stiles says while bracing his good arm against the chair in an effort to get out of it. Chris walks around him and opens the door.

“How about I use my mouth instead,” Chris says, a little smirk on his face that Stiles isn’t sure he’s seen before. And, wow, is that direct. Stiles has been trying for _months_ to get Chris to talk dirty.

“I’m not sure that’d keep me up.” Stiles’ voice is a little breathy.

Chris wraps his hands around Stiles’ waist and pulls him into a standing position. It’s a little awkward even after Stiles slings his good arm around him.

“Now I’m a little insulted,” Chris murmurs directly into his ear. Stiles presses his face into Chris’ shoulder.

“I’ll just have to make it up to you then.”

Stiles plants a quick kiss on Chris’ skin, fully aware that they are out in public where others can see. He shifts gingerly until his back is to the open door, turning Chris with him. It takes a little time but eventually they get Stiles situated, spread out over the backseat. If it weren’t for his arm and other injuries (his ass aching already from the stiff wheelchair seat) Stiles would totally be down for some hot car sex. Instead, he loops the seatbelt around him for at least the illusion of safety while Chris folds the wheelchair and stows it away in the trunk.

Chris climbs into the driver’s seat. Stiles waits until he’s buckled himself in before resting his arm on the back of the seat to play with his hair. Stiles smiles into the silence, his fingers absently combing through Chris’ hair.

He missed this. He missed the quiet flirting, the little teasing touches, the comfortable silence, and the easiness of being able to simply exist as he is in Chris’ presence. Chris pulls onto the highway.

Papa Don’t Preach starts playing from Stiles’ pocket. Stiles’ heart jumps. He removes his hand from Chris’ hair and digs into his pocket for his phone, suddenly terrified that something awful happened and his dad is calling to tell him terrible no good news.

“Hey dad,” he says, shifting in his seat. He feels a little like he was caught doing something naughty instead of just riding home from the hospital. Chris snorts, shaking his head, and turns onto the highway.

“Hey son,” his dad says, an easy tone to his voice. Stiles relaxes. Nothing bad could have happened if his dad sounds like that. There’s the sound of ringing phones and babbling people in the background. He must be at work.

“What’s up?”

Stiles picks up the bag from the pharmacy and throws it into the front seat, holding the phone to his ear with his good shoulder.

“Just wanted to see if you’ve been thrown out of the hospital yet.”

Stiles grins, watching a green sedan overtake a semi truck.

“Yeah, I’m in the car now. Not driving, don’t worry.”

“Good!” He actually sounds happy. Stiles would wonder how he’s going to ruin it but he already knows. “I was thinking about picking up some Lou’s Burgers on the way home tonight. You up for that?”

Stiles scratches at his jaw, nervous. He knows how his dad is going to take this.

“First of all, that greasy food, while heavenly, is way bad for your heart,” Stiles says, pauses, girds himself, and takes a big breath.

“Come on, kiddo, one burger aint gonna kill me.”

Stiles mutters to himself, “This probably will,” and attempts to ignore his dad’s mangling of pronunciation. It’s just not OK when parents do that.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you,” he says. Then off to the side, “Yeah, Tom. I’ll get to it.”

“I said I’m going to be at Chris’.”

“Stiles—”

“And yeah, I know, I know, I know, I know but I want to try anyway.”

Stiles holds his breath. His dad sighs.

“You told me he’s married.”

He sounds so disappointed in Stiles. Chris changes lanes, slows down for the exit ramp. Stiles winces. He hates when his dad sounds like that, like Stiles is just an utter letdown of a son.

“Turns out? Not so much.”

“What does that even mean?”

“How about lunch? Or dinner. I won’t even nag you about what you bring over… much.”

There’s silence over the line. Chris takes a left onto Junction and gets into the right hand lane.

“There’s no changing your mind about this, is there?”

Stiles smiles, a small hopeful thing unfurls in his chest. He may never get his dad to like his relationship with Chris but he might be able to get him to grudgingly accept it.

“When have you ever known that to be possible?”

“Never,” his dad says, “I’ll come over when I can.”

“Alright. Love ya.”

“I love you, too, son.”

Stiles hangs up. It’s quiet in the car now. He shoves his phone in his pocket, closes his eyes, and drapes his arm over the driver’s seat. Stiles presses his hand flat against Chris, feeling his collarbone under his palm. Chris’ hand touches his, slides over his fingers and covers the back of Stiles’ hand. Stiles smiles.

“I’m going to have to have a conversation with your father, aren’t I?”

Stiles plays with the collar of Chris’ shirt, fingers sliding against Chris’.

“Yep.”

Chris turns onto their street and, wow, their street, their _home._

“I’m not sure if this is going to go better or worse than our last talk,” Chris mutters, rubbing his fingertips against Stiles’ knuckles.

Stiles snickers. He feels nervous, yes, but it’s a good nervous.

“It’s got to be better than the ‘So You’re Sleeping With My Barely Legal Son’ talk.”

“Says you…”

Chris pulls into the driveway. Stiles’ Jeep is parked on the side of the road in front of the house. Someone must have driven it here for him. Chris puts his SUV into park. Stiles takes his hand back and fumbles with the seatbelt, trying to get it off as quick as he can. So close. So fucking close. Chris leans over, picks up Stiles’ bag of drugs, and gets out of the car.

“Ha!” Stiles exclaims, finally getting the seatbelt off one handed. Chris opens the back and Stiles can hear him wrestling with his wheelchair. Stiles slowly, carefully, moves his leg, wincing when his knee protests everything. The driver’s side passenger door doesn’t open until Stiles is in position, feet gingerly planted on the floor.

Getting out of the SUV is both harder and more painful than getting in it was. At one point, the only thing keeping Stiles up is Chris’ hands on his hips and Stiles’ back leaning against Chris’ chest.

Chris shuffles awkwardly around Stiles, trying to help keep him up and move to a better position. He’s now in front of Stiles, hands tight on his hips, Stiles’ good arm around his neck. Stiles grins at him. There are birds chirping and kids yelling down the street. Chris tilts his head up and kisses Stiles.

Which is another wow because they’re outside their house where the neighbors can see. It’s not even night. It’s like eleven in the morning on a Friday. Someone is going to see this.

That doesn’t stop Stiles from returning the kiss even with his knee throbbing in pain. It’s nothing. Stiles has lived with that pain for long enough to know that nothing he does will make it better right now. Stiles presses closer when Chris lightly sucks on his bottom lip. His arm bumps against Chris’ chest and ow, OK. That one actually will get better if he listens to it.

Stiles pulls back, his right shoulder now pulsing with a loud pain. Chris squeezes his hips and looks at Stiles with this soft smile like Stiles has done something absolutely wonderful.

He licks his lips, opens them like he’s going to say something, closes his mouth, and kisses Stiles once, soft and slow, a near pained look on his face. It makes Stiles a little nervous.

“I love you,” Chris says; looking into Stiles’ eyes like he expects Stiles to deny it, deny him.

All of the air rushes out of Stiles’ lungs. The small tints of fear on Chris’ face make Stiles feel a relief that he’s not the only one this scares and that makes him feel like shit. His actions have made Chris afraid to express one of the most wonderful things in the world.

Stiles kisses Chris’ brow, squeezing him to Stiles with his good arm still around his neck. Chris’ eyes close, a strange despondency on his face like he thinks Stiles is going to let him down easy.

“I love you, too,” Stiles says, quietly, with as much conviction as he can.

And he does. It’s not the all-consuming passion he had with Derek that burnt their lives down with their mutual obsession but it’s love.

Gorgeous, comforting, and ever-present. That’s what makes it so damn scary.

Chris helps lower Stiles down into his wheelchair and they head inside. Chris has this big grin on his face like he just won a million dollars and a pony or something equally exciting instead of hearing that some loser kid loves him. Stiles only hopes he can be as good to Chris as he deserves. The man might as well be an angel and then there’s Stiles: broken, bitter, and crippled. He doesn’t even know what Chris sees in him but whatever it is, he hopes it’s worth all of the trouble he puts Chris through.

“So,” Stiles says, “Bath or shower?”

Chris unlocks and pushes open the front door, says, “Whichever one you prefer to have your cock sucked in."

Stiles’ stomach does a series of acrobatic flips as Chris pulls Stiles over the threshold to the house like he didn’t just say something incredibly hot. Stiles is doomed. Absolutely doomed. He loves it.

He loves Chris.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna go play Half Life and, if y'all are nice enough, post the next chapter as well since I already have it written.
> 
> Also, I really want Lou's Burgers now. They don't have them in St. Louis and that makes me very, very upset. WHAT IS IT WITH SHITTY BURGER JOINTS IN THE MIDWEST? I wanna go back home now. = /


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack take care of some necessary evils, a car ride, and more than just physical splinters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the onset of grief caused by father's day.  
> Nothing better than holidays meant to cherish parents when yours are fucking dead.
> 
> On another note:  
> ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND WORDS, BITCHES!!!! \o/

**Gary’s head crunches** when Isaac bashes it with a rock. Lydia hasn’t moved since Derek set her down on the ground next to Danny. She just sits there and stares at Jackson while he continues to not move. It hasn’t been long enough for him to start to smell like anything but fresh meat and fear.

Derek hates himself for the things his pack has had to endure because of him. All of this pain and grief just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. Not with Lydia’s blank eyes and Danny’s silent tears. The pack is so quiet that it thrums, discordant, with the link between them. It’s like they’re all sparking off distress signalers, causing this raw and confused screaming that makes Derek’s ears feel as if he’s driving up into the mountains and almost at the point where the pressure will make them pop but never quite reaching there.

The air is thin here.

Derek just wants it all to stop. He wants to keep them safe even though he knows he can’t.

He can barely breath.

“Take Scott and case the area for spent rounds,” Derek says, voice as hollow as the shed casings they’ll pick up. He’s surprised and disoriented because his voice doesn’t sound muffled or far away. It shreds close to him, clear and concise and oh so very uninhabited. Allison nods, Scott shuffling uncomfortably at her side. He doesn’t want to do any of this just as much as Scott but he has to—they have to. For Lydia. For Jackson.

The things he has made them all do sickens Derek.

Allison and Scott walk away from him, looking at the ground intently, searching for the casings, these shiny needles in a fucked up haystack. Derek talks to Boyd next over the sounds of Isaac using his fingers to dig a bullet out of Gary’s arm.

The hole won’t heal but Isaac knows how to make wounds look like things they’re not. It almost sounds like he’s sticking his finger in homemade macaroni. Derek used to do that as a kid just to gross out Laura.

He misses her so much right now. He misses going to sleep, listening to her heartbeat, smelling her on him everywhere he went.

He wants his mom.

He can’t have her back.

He can’t have any of them back.

He doesn’t deserve them.

Jackson didn’t deserve him.

“When Isaac’s done with the body, take him and the newest pack members to Hale House. Explain to them the pack rules.”

Boyd nods, jaw tight, and walks over to the clump of new werewolves. All of them look nervous, afraid. Some of them even look familiar. Addie stares down at her knees, bare legs streaked in dirt, shirt torn. Victoria sits among them, staring at Gary’s body with a clenched jaw, Gary’s jacket across her shoulders.

It doesn’t cover nearly enough of her bare torso and the hole he put in her belly that’s already starting to heal Like Jackson won’t.

Derek feels a flare of anger that washes over the sounds of his pack cleaning up the crime scene. Jackson will never heal again. Victoria took that from him. Derek takes a breath, holds it, and turns away from them.

Erica is still sitting on the ground where Boyd left her, glaring at Gary’s body, her bloody hands fisting the ground next to her thighs. Derek exhales slowly and breaths through his mouth like tasting Jackson’s blood in the air is somehow better than smelling it. He walks over to her, kneels, and raises his arms to gently grip her biceps. She’s shaking.

“Hey,” he whispers. She flinches when Isaac stabs a branch through the bullet hole in Gary. Derek refuses to look over, knowing that if he does he’ll throw up. “We’ve got to go.”

“I did that.” Her voice is flat when she speaks. “I killed someone.”

“You did but it’s over now.”

Erica shakes her head, whimpers when Isaac breaks the branch.

“Here, there’s one over there,” Scott says quietly somewhere behind Derek. He doesn’t understand or know how Allison and Scott can just leave her like this. He knows they’re doing what’s necessary but still here is their girlfriend nearly falling apart and they’re doing their jobs. Derek could barely do anything when Stiles was sick or injured. He could never stop worrying about what might happen, about all of the things Derek couldn’t shield Stiles from.

“It’s never over,” she breathes out. There are ripping noises when Erica’s fingers go deep enough into the ground to tear roots. Her biceps move under his hands and Derek tightens his grip. He doesn’t know what to say to that because she’s right and he can’t lie to her. He won’t.

Derek stands, pulling her up with him. Erica moves with no resistance, letting him lead her over to Lydia and Danny. Isaac takes a shaky breath and stands, the twigs and leaves under his feet crunch in a sick mockery of the sounds Gary’s corpse made when he was tampering with it. Danny looks up at Derek, a lost expression on his wet face.

“Can you stand?”

Danny nods, throat working as he swallows. He doesn’t say anything but Derek isn’t expecting words. Right now he feels as if there aren’t even words. These noises that leave his mouth mean nothing to him. All there is is the nonexistent overpowering buzz of white noise.

“We’ve got to go. I’ll take you and Erica back to Chris’.”

The apartment is too crowded, it would be impossible to sneak Danny and Erica in as they are and Derek knows he looks no better. Hale House will be full of the ex-Virginia pack and anywhere else he could take them just wouldn’t be equipped to handle them right now. Danny needs medical attention and Erica needs to be surrounded by familiar and comforting scents. He doesn’t know anywhere else that would smell of her girlfriend and boyfriend so much as the Argent House.

Danny starts to stand, one hand still held to his stomach. The bandages keeping his organs inside are soaked. Somehow, it makes him look naked, bare from the waist up with only blood and gauze covering what no one should ever see. Derek turns his eyes to Lydia, unable to look any longer at his Danny.

They are all his. His pack.

Erica, Isaac, Boyd, Danny, Scott, Allison, Lydia… Jackson.

He belongs to them and right now he is useless.

“Do you remember the cover story?”

Lydia speaks without moving her head, eyes wide and watery.

“Jackson and I went for a walk. Some man attacked us. Jackson told me to run. He said he’d hold him off while I got help. I heard him scream. Came back. He—he was dead already. The man attacked me but he was hurt. Jackson fought well. He had me pinned. I hit him with a rock. He fell off. I hit him again and again. I was so scared. I couldn’t _stop_ it. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

Derek nods; his throat feels rubbed raw as if he was the one speaking instead of her. Erica wraps her fingers around Derek’s hand, squeezing tighter and tighter. Danny reaches out and Derek takes his hand. He can hear Boyd and Isaac herding the newcomers in the direction of Hale House.

“Will you be OK on your own?” he asks her, eyes fixed on her mouth, unable to look away from the tiny twitches it makes. The corners can’t seem to decide whether to go up or down.

Lydia shakes her head, says, “Wait until everyone leaves. Count to one hundred. Call the police. Standard response time is ten minutes this far out of town.”

“I think that’s all of them,” Allison says quietly, “Scott?” Derek doesn’t hear Scott reply. He wishes she were right, wishes that this was the end of it.

It never is.

“I’m strong enough for this,” Lydia says and Derek almost believes her when she lifts her chin and stares at him, mouth compressed, trying to fight off whatever emotion is causing her face to move so much when the rest of her is still.

Not as still as Jackson.

“When they finish questioning you, you can come to Argent house if you want. We’ll probably all end up there tonight.”

Lydia nods. Erica’s hand is completely motionless in his, still tight and strong. It reassures him in a way that Danny’s weak grip, the way he’s leaning on Derek, and his shaky heartbeat and shallow breaths don’t.

“Allison, Scott, go with Isaac.”

Derek doesn’t wait for them to consent. He knows that right now they’ll do what he says, no questions.

With one last look at Lydia, he pulls Erica and Danny with him towards his car. He has children holding his hands; tall, adult-looking children who depend on him to stay strong and not go off the deep end. Derek is needed and necessary to them. He loves them. All of them.

He just can’t help thinking they would have been much better off without him in their lives. He wishes, not even for the hundredth time, that he could trade places with another member of his family.

Someone who wouldn’t have fucked this all up.

They almost make it to the car, feet crushing leaves and twigs without prejudice, Danny’s shuffle dragging leaves up over his shoes, before Lydia starts counting. Danny’s legs wobble once too often and Derek stops them long enough to scoop him up.

Danny is tall, muscular, and awkward to carry like this, his other hand still trapped in Erica’s strong hold but he manages. Danny rests his forehead against Derek’s head and breaths small hitching breaths straight into his ear.

“One… two… three…”

Erica climbs into the backseat without being told. Derek watches her curl up, dragging her muddy feet across the seat as her hair falls over her face, a gilded veil she can use to cover up her grieving face. Derek envies her.

“Four… five… six…”

Derek puts Danny in the front passenger seat. Danny helps as much as he can, grunting when he turns wrong, bends a little too much.

“Ten… eleven… twelve…”

Derek sits down in the driver’s seat. Lydia makes it to twenty before she starts crying.

“Twenty-one,” she says, taking a gasping breath, “Twenty-two…”

The car roars to life and Derek hauls ass out of there like every ghost he’s ever made is chasing him.

Every year it seems like there’s twice as many as there were before.

 

 

The only time any noise cuts through the silence of the car ride is when Derek has to pull over to let cop cars and ambulances through.

Danny says, “Oh god, Jackson,” and puts his head between his knees. He throws up on Derek’s floor. It sounds painful and smells awful. Derek cracks the windows and almost doesn’t hear the pained noises coming out of Danny’s mouth or the wet sounds of things in his stomach moving against his bandages.

At a stoplight, he reads a text from Boyd, asking him what he wants the new betas to do. Derek instructs him to tell them to go home and decide if they want to stay in Beacon Hills. He won’t keep them here against their will.

 

He gets an alert that someone has left a message on the group chat a few minutes later. Danny and Erica’s phones both make the same chirping noise.

[Abominomnible: Arrived safe @ home. Hope everything goes well. :)]

Derek’s heart clenches and his stomach roils. The smell of Danny’s vomit turns his sinuses into acid as he tries to keep the bile in his throat back. He doesn’t know how to tell Stiles what happened but he sure as hell isn’t going to do it like this.

“I want to tell him,” Danny says. Derek risks a glance at him. Danny looks as queasy as Derek feels but there’s a resolve on his face that Derek knows better than to argue with.

“OK.”

Erica says and does nothing. Her heart is still beating and her lungs are still going so he guesses that’s something.

 

When they arrive, there’s kids playing on the street and Derek is strangely surprised. The rest of the world goes on, happy and bright, with children feeling safe enough to run around and laugh and play and scream in glee. Derek sends a message to Stiles, telling him to get Chris to open the garage door. He idles in the driveway.

Derek feels as hollow and burnt as the original Hale House. There’s nothing but corpses in him. His mind twangs and creaks with the weight of his pack. It’s so much bigger than it was before. How many people did Victoria recruit? How many new potential corpses has he been charged with? What’s taking Chris so long? He’s taking longer than Derek is comfortable with.

Derek hears the drain of a bathtub, the splash of water, slow, unsteady footsteps, and eventually the sounds of a bed being sat on.

“Go, gogogogogo, I’m- fine. I got this. Go.”

Derek doesn’t hear Chris say anything in reply, just what sounds like a kiss and quick footsteps. They change timber a few times as Derek imagines Chris going over carpet, stairs, hardwood, and tile before reaching the garage. Danny sits a little more upright while Erica uncurls a little in the backseat. The garage door opens and Derek drives in, barely managing to put it into park before the door goes down behind them.

Chris is standing in the doorway to the house, hair wet and lips red, shirt sticking to him like he put it on before he dried off all the way. Derek can smell Stiles’ soap when he opens his car door.

Derek feels sick all over again, conflicting emotions battling together in his stomach. He remembers how much Stiles enjoys bathing with someone else. It used to be Derek. A lifetime ago. Before he broke Stiles and before he realized just how much he felt for Isaac.

God, Derek is going to ruin their day.

He’s going to drag this shit all over their nice day (because Derek remembers it was always a nice day when Stiles decided it was bath time).

Danny opens the car door, making small grunting noises in the back of his throat, and climbs slowly out, closing it behind him. Erica sits upright. Chris shifts on his feet, eyes moving between Derek and Danny.

In the corner of his eye, he can see Danny start to shake. Derek turns away from Chris, registering the shock on his face as Danny manages to get past the car enough for it not to obscure his stomach. His heartbeat stutters and Derek pushes the driver’s seat forward to let Erica out.

She’s still got this shell-shocked look to her. Derek grabs her hand and pulls her towards the door. Danny brushes past Chris, arm cradling his stomach again, steps slow and careful. The smell of sick is warm and invasive in the air. He closes the car door and Erica follows him with little resistance.

Danny’s footsteps change timber. Derek assumes he’s made it to the stairs, his determination to reach Stiles giving him more speed than Derek would expect.

He leads Erica into the kitchen.

Chris follows him.

Jackson is still dead.

“What—what happened?”

Derek sits Erica down into a chair at the kitchen table.

“We won,” Derek says, turning towards the cabinets to look for a bowl, something to clean the blood and mud off of Erica.

“Did you—is Victoria—”

Derek cuts him off.

“She’ll survive.”

He opens up a cabinet at random. Bowls. Big serving bowls. Perfect. Derek can’t look at Chris; he refuses to see his face and any signs of relief that might be there. Danny says Stiles’ name softly. He hears Stiles gasp, pained sounds coming from both of them. Two broken people that are both above Derek; literally and metaphorically.

Derek pulls a bowl from the shelf and walks over to the sink.

“We lost Jackson.”

A chair scrapes across the floor followed by the sounds of Chris sitting down heavily. Derek says nothing, just fills the bowl with warm water. There’s the sound of a bed shifting and Danny says Stiles’ name again. Derek squirts soap into the bowl. He watches it swirl around and froth up, trying not to feel anything when Danny speaks.

“Jackson- Jackson’s dead.”

It’s quiet upstairs save for the sounds of Danny crying. Derek snags a dishtowel hanging from the oven’s handle and walks back over to Erica with the bowl. She does nothing, just allows Derek to lift her hand after he kneels at her feet.

He’s had dreams where he’s at Erica, Allison’s, and Lydia’s feet, obsequiously bowing to the golden hallow around Erica, the strawberry crown on Lydia, and the dark light that shone from Allison.

“Is Danny—is he…”

There’s a sliver of wood sticking out from under Erica’s nail. Derek pinches it between his thumb and forefinger and pulls it out. Half an inch of wood comes from under her nail, the wound leaking fresh blood when the wood is free of it. Derek suppresses the urge to heave yet again.

“He just told Stiles,” Derek says before bringing Erica’s hand up to suck on the nail. She doesn’t flinch even though Derek knows how much it’s got to sting. The chair Chris is in screeches when he stands.

Derek pulls a smaller splinter out with his teeth after finding it with his tongue. He spits it out, runs the towel over her hand, and listens to Chris run out of the room and up the stairs. The scent of Stiles’ soap lingers in the air, mixing with the smell of dish soap, florid dirt, and perspiration. Jackson’s scent is still strong in the room.

Derek wishes Isaac was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this quote while fucking around on the internet. I’m not into bibles and that lot but I thought it was interesting in this context.  
> “These bottles of wine when we filled them were new, now they are rent and burst. These garments we have on, and these shoes we have on our feet, by reason of the very long journey are worn out, and almost consumed.”  
> It’s from the Douay-Rheims bible, I think.


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles, a reference to Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, and a dirty bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just moved into my new house... I say new like the house isn't old as balls... but anyway, yeah. I just moved and I just started a new job that I'm super excited for but the problem is that with this new job comes a doubling in the hours I work.  
> I have to wake up in the morning. _The morning._  
>  Back on track!  
> What does this have to do with you you may ask the computer screen. Well, I'm gonna tell you.  
> It means I have considerably less time to write than I used to.  
> So yeah.  
> I'd apologize but I'm going to be making a shit load of money and I love my new house no matter how much crap I have to do to it. I regret nothing.  
> Except maybe this long as fuck note.

**Stiles should have known better** than to be optimistic. To think things in his life could go well is something so preposterous it hardly deserves to be thought. Everything comes with a price that’s never worth bearing, he thinks as he combs his fingers through Danny’s hair, staring blankly in front of him.

Danny is tucked under his left arm, head heavy on Stiles. They’re not saying anything anymore, just lying together, trying to come to grips with all of this shit that is their life.

Stiles aches all over, whatever relaxing effect his bath with Chris had completely shattered by the sight of Danny walking into his room, bandages red and brown.

Jackson is dead.

He tests the veracity of this, rolls it around in his head. It does and doesn’t feel real. In a horrifyingly guilt ridden way, it’s almost surreal to realize that he was getting his dick sucked when Jackson died. Stiles was happy not even fifteen minutes ago.

There’s a broken bit of leaf in Danny’s hair. Stiles picks it out. It’s so quiet, the kind of quiet that’s unbearably loud. Stiles doesn’t have the energy to fill it right now.

The silence is comforting in its uncomfortableness.

Is that even a word?

Jackson will never speak again and Stiles is wondering if something is a word.

There are footsteps on the stairs. Stiles looks up.

“Hey.” Chris’ voice is soft, his eyebrows drawn down and together. He hesitates a few feet into the room, eyes shifting between Stiles and Danny. Stiles doesn’t stop running his fingers through Danny’s hair.

“Will you call Deaton? Or Mrs. McCall? Or somebody? Danny needs medical attention and I am so not equipped for this.”

Truer words were never said, at least not by Stiles. He is as unprepared as one could get for werewolves and violence and death and struggle and loss. Stiles has lost so much.

“Or Scott. Hasn’t he been training with Deaton? He’d know what to do. He’d—”

“Stiles,” Danny says, hand squeezing Stiles’ good knee. It’s probably the only thing he can reach right now, lying on his back, using Stiles’ armpit as a pillow. Stiles takes a big breath, eyes wide. He’s not going to cry in front of Danny, he’s not. He’s just… just no.

Danny shifts moving his head, fingers firm on Stiles’ knee. In the corner of Stiles’ eye, he sees Chris open his mouth and take a step closer before faltering.

Stiles looks at Chris instead of Danny, feeling a momentary attraction to the safety of Chris’ face.

“If you don’t have his number then it’s in my phone.”

Chris nods, walks over to the dresser where he put Stiles’ phone what seems like ages ago and picks it up. Danny shifts on the bed slowly, making these little pained grunts. Stiles moves his arm to help, wincing when Danny’s movements jostle him.

“Deaton? It’s Chris Argent.”

Stiles pushes himself up the bed with his left arm until he’s in a more upright position. Danny lays flat on the bed next to him, breathing shallowly.

Jackson is dead.

“Danny was injured severely. We need medical assistance.”

Danny reaches out and Stiles takes his hand, squeezing gently. There’s a roughness to his skin mixed in with the slick feel of still wet blood.

“Yes, at my house… I don’t know, they bandaged it before he got here.”

There’s mud smeared across the foot of the bed from Danny and Stiles can see blotches of blood staining the covers. It’s on him, too, on his clothes from Danny laying partially on him.

Jackson is dead.

“I do. Yes… I’ll see you then.”

Chris hangs up. Stiles looks over to him. He knows that Danny is making their bed a mess but he just doesn’t really care. Right now all he wants to do is curl up with Chris and pretend none of this is happening. He wants Chris to run his fingers over Stiles’ head and kiss his cheek and tell him it was all a bad dream. He wants to wake up and have it be Sunday morning again. Stiles wants to sit on the counter and watch Chris cook French toast or feel Chris’ fingers run up under Stiles’ boxers and play with the creases at the top of his legs like nothing is at all wrong with the world.

He wants Jackson to be alive, to hear him sass Scott while he holds Lydia’s hand.

Stiles just wants an end to the violence, pain, and death.

“Deaton will be here in twenty minutes, Chris says, shoving Stiles’ phone into his pocket. Chris’ hair is still wet, lips a little red, making the bruised cut stand out more. Sucking Stiles’ dick must have been painful. Stiles isn’t sure he would have done it if their positions had been reversed.

Then again, if it had been Chris hurt, Chris the one with the crippled leg, he’s not sure they would have ended up together at all. Stiles probably wouldn’t have looked at him twice if Chris hadn’t been the one to help Stiles through all of this. He never would have noticed Chris’ kindness, his caring, how gentle and broken he was if it weren’t for Stiles’ own descent into grief on the Island of Misfits.

Stiles never would have thought of Chris as anything but Allison’s dad or his occasional friend if it weren’t for his desperate need to feel like someone understood his isolation and loneliness.

It’s silent in the room.

Stiles can’t help wonder what Derek is thinking. No doubt he’s blaming himself, trying to think of ways he could have avoided Jackson’s death. Stiles knows better but he can’t help think the same thing, can’t help think that this is all Derek’s doing. So much about Stiles’ life is his fault anyway that one more thing really wouldn’t make all that much difference.

Stiles fists the covers under his hand, mouth hurting from how hard he’s compressing his lips. Chris takes a step forward, raising his arm like he’s about to comfort Stiles.

“Derek, come here,” Stiles says, no room in his voice for worry that Derek won’t listen or the panic that’s starting to set in.

Chris’ arm drops, he stills, face taking on some emotion Stiles won’t name. How much he doesn’t want to do this. How much he just wants to surround himself with Chris and forget that his friends are breakable. It’s one thing when Stiles gets hurt, reminded that he is indeed a mortal creature and completely another when life reminds him that his friends, his resilient, strong, and amazingly irreplaceable friends, are too.

It’s silent again after that, Stiles refusing to look up from the wrinkles in the pajama pants he borrowed from Chris. His stuff is still at his dad’s. Stiles can hear Danny breathing, footsteps on the stairs, and a mourning dove somewhere outside cooing. How appropriate.

“You rang?”

Sometimes Stiles wonders how people can think Derek doesn’t have a sense of humor. He’s not sure if this is one of those times or not.

“Will you take Danny to the basement?”

Stiles looks up in time to see Derek nod. His clothes are torn, muddy, and covered in blood. No one says anything as Derek walks over to the bed, skirting the room to stay as far away from Stiles and Chris as possible. It only takes a few seconds for Derek to pick Danny up, much less time than it takes him to walk back out of the room, cradling Danny to his chest.

Danny points over Derek’s shoulder at Stiles, glare firmly in place, and says, “Don’t fuck this up,” before disappearing from view. Stiles just waves at him with his good arm, fingers wiggling in the air. He is just too damn tired for all of this shit.

It’s silent again but not uncomfortable for the same reasons as before. Now it’s empty whereas before it was full of Danny’s grief at Jackson’s death and his disapproval of all things Stiles. Some things never changed no matter how much it seems like they do.

Stiles looks down at the covers like that’s slightly better than the alternative, like looking at them is better than looking at a man who went from enemy to lover in the most convoluted of ways.

“You know what I could really do with about now?” Stiles asks as he musters up the courage to look at Chris. Moon above, he makes Stiles’ chest feel too full.

“No,” Chris says, suspicion clear in the way he narrows his eyes at Stiles even though he tries to hide it behind an appropriate mask of concern, “What?”

“A really good fucking hug from my boyfriend.”

Stiles congratulates himself on how his voice almost doesn’t crack. Chris’ face softens, mouth parting, as he walks the few feet over to the bed. Stiles begins to relax, manages a small, sad smile directed at Chris. He crawls onto the bed, stops, folds his legs under himself, and reaches out. Stiles lurches towards him, his shoulder impacting Chris’ chest harder than he means it to.

Chris grunts from Stiles’ weight, arms gently wrapping around Stiles. Lips press into the top of his head. Everything hurts inside and out. He feels overloaded, numb from all the places that hurt.

Chris still smells like gardenias and gun oil and Jackson is dead.

They don’t say anything for a long time. Stiles just listens to Chris’ heartbeat and tries to forget this week ever happened.

Chris nudges Stiles’ head with his chin.

“I think we need to change the sheets.”

Stiles stares down at the bedding. It’s the same set as Saturday.

“Don’t you usually change them on Tuesday?”

Chris shifts, fingers curling around the material of Stiles’ shirt.

“Yes,” he says slowly.

“Why…” Stiles leans back, stares at Chris. Who seems to have found something fascinating near Stiles’ feet. “Why didn’t you change the bedding?”

There’s an awkward pause where Chris stares at Stiles’ feet and Stiles stares at Chris’ face.

“I didn’t want to get rid of the last sheets you slept on with me.”

Stiles’ mouth won’t close. His heart is doing this funny thing where it constricts in some weird mix of guilt and love. He can’t help but press a kiss to Chris’ chest, over his heart, mouth trying to frown and smile at the same time.

“Damn, you’re just as pathetic as me…”

Chris looks down at Stiles, eyebrows drawn together and down.

“You’re not very nice, you know that?”

Stiles kisses Chris softly.

“I can be nice when I want to.”

Chris hums, sliding his hand up Stiles’ back to cup his neck.

“When you want something,” he murmurs while grazing kisses around Stiles’ lips.

Stiles shrugs with his face, telegraphing as much as he can in the expression because moving hurts too much.

 _Existing_ hurts too much.

“Only with you. I’ve found out over the years that bribery, manipulation, and annoying someone until they give me what I want works far better.”

Chris strokes Stiles’ neck below his ear, and grunts in amusement.

“That explains so much about your early attempts to seduce me.”

Stiles nips Chris’ jaw and marvels at how much Chris’ presence makes everything seem easier to deal with.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Chris kisses Stiles’ temple, mutters, “Only too well.”

Stiles shuffles as close as he can get. Every part of his body is throbbing in discordant rhythms. He feels nauseated, tired, and completely wrung out. He’s done nothing today but check out of the hospital and take a bath. Stiles doesn’t say anything but that’s OK. With Chris he doesn’t have to or feel the need to fill every silence with noise. Instead he closes his eyes, side and arm screaming at him for the awkward angle, and continues to lean as much of himself against Chris as he possibly can. It’s worth it to feel Chris next to him, solid, warm, and, most importantly, alive.

Stiles lays his head on Chris’ shoulder, against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“If only you used your powers for good instead of corrupting upstanding gentlemen.”

Stiles rubs his mouth against Chris’ neck, taking comfort from the familiar scratch of stubble against his cheek.

“You were hardly a gentleman when I met you.”

Stiles’ arm has fallen asleep. The pinpricks and tingles are an odd juxtaposition to the pain the rest of him is in. Even his bladder is pitching in to make Stiles as uncomfortable as possible.

“Maybe upstanding but that was only after I got my hands on you.”

Chris snorts, hand squeezing Stiles’ neck lightly.

“Really? An erection joke, Stiles?”

Stiles shakes his head against Chris’ shirt, feeling overwhelmingly guilty for living and says, “I really need to pee.”

Chris shifts, moving away from Stiles. There’s a moment where Stiles teeters, almost falls over, but manages to right himself with Chris’ help. It takes a lot of awkward scooting on Stiles’ part to get to the edge of the bed and stand up. Chris is there throughout with gentle support, shuffling along behind Stiles on the bed.

The end result is Stiles standing, OK, leaning against Chris but he’s upright and that’s what matters.

Stiles takes a step, hisses, wobbling, the sheer amount of pain his body is in momentarily too much. One of Chris’ arms goes around Stiles’ waist, careful not to bump his sling, pulling him close. Stiles throws his good arm over Chris, using it to take the weight off his right leg as much as possible.

They take the next step together. It’s better but it still hurts. Stiles stares straight ahead at the bathroom door and tries not to think about how far away the distance doesn’t seem. This is torture.

A few steps later Chris asks, “Do you want me to carry you?”

Stiles huffs, takes another step in rebellion. Mistake. He winces.

“No, but if you ask me nice enough maybe I’ll let you hold my dick while I go pee.”

Chris huffs, hand coming up to hold on to Stiles’ left wrist against Chris’ shoulder. It makes it easier to put more of his weight on Chris.

“And they call _me_ a pervert,” Chris says in a playful tone.

Stiles stops, laughing too hard to walk. The laugh turns acidic in his throat, tastes like ash in his mouth. His stomach churns.

He starts crying.

He can’t stop. Sobs start to shake his body. Chris is now in front of him. Stiles sways, using the arm still around Chris to pull him into the mess that is Stiles Stilinski. He presses his wet, snotty face into Chris’ shoulder. Clings to him, mouth open, impossibly loud noises coming out of him. Stiles’ leg gives out; the only thing keeping him from crashing to the floor is Chris. His hands around Stiles, Chris lowers them down carefully, slowly. He kneels in front of Stiles, body bent over him. Stiles’ right leg is stretched out, thigh on top of Chris’ knee, left leg bent uncomfortably under him.

Everything hurts so much.

Stiles curls himself into Chris, face squished against the chest in front of him, good arm fisting the material of Chris’ shirt.

He hurts so much but it doesn’t matter.

Jackson is dead.

“Shhh, baby.” Chris’ voice is soft, full of quiet pain. It’s more comforting than it has the right to be. Chris holds him tight and Stiles is selfish. “Everything is going to be alright.”

Stiles cries harder.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason this one took so long is because I literally re-wrote it. Not bits of it but the whole damn thing. I was so frustrated and angry and then I talked to someone on Tumblr, I don't even remember who now, but I got so relaxed and distracted that I finally figured out what was wrong with the damned thing.  
> Turns out I was writing the wrong sad scene. Like I have had two definitely planned out for months now and I started writing one and the writing was right but it still felt wrong.  
> So yeah, I wrote the wrong scene and had to redo the chapter. Haha.  
> Oh, also I moved and started a new job like my note at the top says. So there was that, too.  
> Anyway,  
> Hope you haven't given up on me.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The needle, Derek, Danny, Deaton, and the damage done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the summary stolen from Marcy Playground.  
> I know it's been a while. To be quite honest, I've been sitting on this chapter for like three or four weeks now. I wanted to finish writing the one after it before posting.  
> Mostly it was that the time I normally devoted to writing each day got reallocated to my new babies. Cecil and Oliver are the cutest little fluff balls on the planet and I will murder you if you say otherwise. Like Cecil's fat white tummy is so fucking adorable and ugh, Oliver's indignant squeaks will murder me from the cuteness.  
> ANYWAY, here it is. Read AN at bottom for important shit.

**Derek would say his heart is breaking** if he didn’t think himself broken already. He knows better by now than to believe he's a whole man. The wounds that run through him like fissures in a glass splinter and spread at the slightest pressure. He’s been glued back together so many times that he doesn’t even know what he originally was. No one wants to handle him; what good is a glass that holds nothing and leaves shards in your hand whenever you so much as look at it wrong?

Watching Deaton sow up Danny makes him wonder.

If he hadn’t been hardened, if he hadn’t been turned into such a brittle material by the kiln that was his teenage years, could it be as easy as that for him? All it takes is a needle and thread to close Danny’s wounds. He’ll be scarred, yes, but able to heal. When leather tears, it’s fixable, visible, but when a glass shatters it only becomes so much garbage. Pieces missing, never recovered, and no matter how well it’s put back together, it’s never complete again.

Derek can’t stop thinking about his dad and how he talked to Derek after his first girlfriend dumped him.

 _“Do you see this cup, Derek? It’s hard, unrelenting. It doesn’t bend when you hold it.”_ Derek had nodded, hands soapy. They had been washing dishes together. _“This glass is like a person’s heart. If you hold on too tight…_ ” The glass started to crack in his dad’s hand. Made this brittle noise that was quieter than Derek expected. _“It starts to break.”_ The glass shattered, cutting him as pieces sprinkled onto the floor. _“You have to be careful. Derek. Not to hold on too much, to put too much pressure on it.”_ Derek had watched his dad shake the glass out of his hand, blood sprinkling the wood of the kitchen floor. _“Or it will hurt you and the glass will never be the same again.”_

Danny whimpers, eyes closed tight and body shaking, as Deaton pushes the needle through his skin again. He’s holding onto Derek’s hand so tight that bones crack and heal every time Deaton adds another stitch. Derek grips back almost as tight, careful not to fracture Danny.

Any more than he has so far.

Upstairs in Chris’ room Stiles cries. Black sludge trickles out of Danny’s stomach and Chris is murmuring words of comfort that Derek had been so sure were beyond him. Erica is pacing in the kitchen, her heartbeat fast and slightly erratic and Chris is saying, “Oh, sweetheart… I’m so sorry.”

Derek doesn’t want to deal with any of this.

The front door opens. Derek tenses.

“Erica?”

“Allison!”

There’s twin sets of foot steps rushing towards each other. It’s quiet again, the only noise that Derek can hear is Danny’s labored breathing, the slick slide of needle through his flesh, and Argents comforting those they love.

“Shh, baby,” Allison says when Erica starts to cry. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now but it’s going to be alright.”

Danny’s hand relaxes in Derek’s. He’s passed out. Deaton continues, brows drawn down, Danny’s blood on his gloved hands. Derek doesn’t let go of Danny. Under the sounds of Deaton working, Derek can hear kissing, clothes sliding against skin, and Erica crying. It feels more like an intrusion than listening to Stiles and Chris fucking.

Deaton steps back. Danny is limp on the table, eyes closed, face relaxed in a terrifying way. Derek’s panic level is inversely related to the rate of Danny’s heartbeat; going up as it slows down.

“Hit him.”

Derek’s head snaps up.

“What,” he asks. It sounds less like a question and more like a statement of disbelief.

Deaton leans forward, that excruciatingly neutral look on his face that Derek hates.

“It will kick start the healing. Hit him.”

Derek curls his right hand into a fist, left still gripping Danny’s, and swings.

The moment after the punch connects, Erica holds her breath. He hears Allison ask, “What is it?”

Danny’s head snaps to the side. Erica shushes Allison. Derek’s knuckles sting briefly, a flare of pain that almost matches the way his hand had hurt earlier from Danny’s hold on it.

Derek stops his breathing and waits. Stiles has quieted now as if he senses the riotous panic Derek feels.

Danny gasps, body seizing. The calamitous pounding of his heart as it sky rockets up before settling into a steady pace is music to Derek. Danny groans, spits up something more red than black, and squeezes Derek’s hand. Erica and Deaton breath shaky sighs in concert with each other.

The wounds begin to heal, slow but surely. Deaton smiles, raising his hands up. The gloves on them are matted black. He peels them off and throws them aside before he starts to rummage through his duffle.

“Don’t do that again,” Derek says, jaw tight. Danny smiles, his face still tight with pain. The skin may be healing but it’ll take longer for the internal parts to heal.

“I’ll get right on that, Miguel.”

Deaton unscrews a jar that reminds Derek of one of Erica’s things of face stuff. It smells good. Like willow bark and evergreen. Derek wants to rub his face all over it and Danny. He’s sure that it’d make his skin tingle and spark. Danny lets out a breath and his head lolls against the table. It’s quiet in the basement. On the ground floor Erica and Allison walk towards where Derek is sure the living room is.

“Come on,” Chris says, “I’ve got you.”

Feet shuffle, lungs push air, six hearts beat that aren’t Jackson’s.

“How’s Scott doing?”

Derek looks up at the ceiling, tracking Allison and Erica’s movements, says, “I don’t know. Ask him.”

Someone should check in with him, give him an update on Danny and Stiles. Derek wonders how well he’s doing with the ex-Virginia pack. No doubt better than Derek would. He’s a natural leader, the way Derek just isn’t. Scott understands people; he has a compassion that Derek can never match.

Danny is staring at Derek. Deaton screws the lid shut on the jar, busies himself with cleaning things up. Derek doesn’t even know the names of some – OK, most— of them. The neighbor’s AC unit kicks on, kids play in the street not too far away. The world continues on the same as always.

“Hey, Derek?”

Derek looks down. Danny’s eyebrows are drawn together and up.

“What?”

Danny wriggles the fingers on the hand Derek is holding.

“It’s great and all that you’re glad I’m still here but I need my hand back.”

Derek lets go slowly. His fingers start to tingle as circulation returns. Danny digs in his pocket and Derek takes a step back. His hands fist on air. They feel empty. He listens to the tap of Danny’s fingers on his phone, Erica and Allison’s quiet words and breathing, Stiles and Chris’ slow movements. Deaton zips his duffle bag closed and throws away his gloves.

Jackson is dead. Danny had been close to joining him. Stiles was hospitalized and Jackson is dead.

They win but is it worth the price? Derek stares at the solitary light bulb in the middle of the ceiling. The basement stills smells a little like interlopers but under that is Allison, Chris, Stiles, Erica, and even Scott. Derek also smells Lydia and Jackson. His pack.

Most of his fucking pack has been in the house enough that the whole damn place smells like them. How could Derek have been so blind—so stupid—not to notice exactly how ingrained Chris is?

Derek can’t help but think he’s clung hard to the past. Back when Argents were all enemies and Derek was the center of the pack (and here he’s fooling himself because Scott has always been the center of the pack).

He knows he has been stuck in the past. His pack has moved on, embraced the now and evolved. Not Derek, though.

Derek lives in limbo, obsessing over every little slight whether they were against him or something he is to blame for. At the moment he isn’t sure if he should be leading the pack. Maybe Derek should have bowed out to Scott when he had the chance. Maybe Scott would have been able to save Jackson. Scott could have ended this confrontation with Victoria without so much violence and bloodshed. Scott wouldn’t have gotten to Stiles too late.

Scott wouldn’t hurt Allison or Erica the way Derek hurt Stiles.

Things would be better if Scott lead the pack. He’s always been the voice of reason and Derek has always been the failure.

“Derek!”

Derek jumps, looks down at Danny. He rolls his eyes at Derek.

“Finally. Scott wants to know if it’s alright to give Virginia pack two days.”

Derek blinks, mind moving too slow to pick up Danny’s meaning at first. He looks around the room to give himself time. Deaton isn’t there anymore. In fact, he’s sure Deaton isn’t in the house at all.

“Make it three. That’s the tradition.”

Danny nods and goes back to his phone. Derek’s bones creak in his hands from how tight he’s fisting them. A door opens and Derek’s whole body tenses when he recognizes the heartbeat that enters. He resists the urge to run upstairs and surround himself with that comforting sound.

“Derek?”

Derek shifts on his feet, looks at the door.

“Coming,” he says. He’s walking away before he remembers that Danny is still laying on a table meant for the torture of werewolves.

“Will you be alright?” he asks Danny over his shoulder. Danny swallows, stares down at his chest.

“I’ll get up in a sec.”

Derek nods and turns away, accepting that response because it wasn’t a no and it wasn’t a lie.

Making his way upstairs he listens to the sounds of Chris and Stiles shuffling across the floor, Erica and Allison’s heartbeat, and Isaac’s steady breathing.

He finds Isaac standing in the entryway, clothes tattered from the fight. When he sees Derek he lifts his arms. Derek comes willingly, folding himself into Isaac’s body.

It’s silent. No one in the house speaks.

Jackson is dead.

Isaac’s left hand cards through Derek’s hair. It’s more a comfort than Derek deserves. He wraps his arms tight around Isaac and shoves his face into the crook of his neck. Isaac smells like dirt and oak and blood, some of it his own, some of it not.

On a theoretical level, he knows life will go on like it always has but he can’t help but feel as if the world is ending. Derek doesn’t know what to do. He is so tired of losing people. There’s nothing he can do for Jackson.

Nothing.

Derek tightens his grip on Isaac, fingers fisting Isaac’s shirt. He feels at a loss, afraid that if he lets go he’ll float away and never find his way back through the bitter seas of his mind.

Isaac says something. Derek shakes his head.

“Derek… I can’t breath.”

Isaac pats his back stiffly. Derek doesn’t budge.

“C’mon, Rick. If you hold on any tighter I’ll suffocate.”

Derek reluctantly loosens his grip. Isaac breathes in a sigh of relief.

“Sorry,” Derek says into Isaac’s neck, trying not to tighten his hold again. His self-control is fighting a losing battle. It’s not in him to not hold on as tight as he can to what he has even though his inability to have without jealously clutching has lost Derek those things most precious to him.

He loses the battle and squeezes. Isaac coughs out a laugh, squeezing Derek back just as hard.

Derek has always held on with a destructive strength but Isaac has taken worse in his life than Derek’s clingy nature. Isaac is stronger than he used to be, stronger than Derek has ever been. He’ll probably survive Derek.

Probably. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday is the last full day of this and I'm having a hard time deciding something which is where you, dear reader, come in.  
> Tell me what you want wrapped up, resolved, or addressed in the comments below and if I think that's a great idea or enough people say the same thing then I'll address it in the next few chapters.  
> So close to the end!  
> Fuck what they say about beginnings being the hardest thing to write in fiction. It's totally the ending. 
> 
> I know what I want to happen but I want to know what you want to happen.  
> If I think your suggestion is a good idea then I'll write it.  
> Last but not least, I'm holding the next chapter hostage.  
> Just kidding.  
> Mostly.  
> Anyway comment below, send me an ask on Tumblr, email me (just add @me.com to the end of my username), PM me, or otherwise internet harass me on what you want out of the ending for this.


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris comforts, Stiles does what he can, and Dread is a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't fucking like this chapter at all.

**Stiles could hear,** this much was true, but none of it made sense. Chris had helped him into the bathroom after he’d stopped crying. He’d held tight to Stiles’ hips while he pissed, his chest solidly surreal against Stiles back. It all felt so far away and too much. He’d flushed the toilet for Stiles and they’d made it as far as the counter before Stiles stopped walking again.

He’s shaking. Stiles can’t seem to stop. Chris is all around him; arm around his waist, other holding Stiles’ good arm around his neck, side pressed into Stiles’ side.

“Stiles?”

Stiles doesn’t answer. He’s afraid to open his mouth, afraid to purge this emotion from his heart or maybe the contents of his stomach. It could go either way at this point.

Chris shuffles around Stiles, careful to keep his hands tight on him. Stiles can see his face now, hallowed by the window behind him. Chris’ eyebrows are drawn together and up at the center, mouth softly shaped into a frown. He says Stiles’ name again. Still no answer. Stiles can’t take his eyes away from the blurred gilded strands the sun outlines Chris’ hair in. Stiles’ vision floods, eyes watering.

Chris herds Stiles over to the counter with tugs and gentle pushing. Stiles leans back against it, tall enough that when he pushes up with his left leg slightly, he can perch on it with relative ease. All ease is relative to Stiles.

It’s slightly strange to realize that Chris probably knows that the counter is the perfect height for Stiles. He’s so accommodating to Stiles all the time that it makes him feel guilty.

Stiles’ face is sticky from tears and snot. So much so that his skin feels stiff. Chris takes his hands off of Stiles, reaches over to where Stiles knows the hand towel hands. He steps away from Stiles. Water runs. Stiles stares at the door, eyes unmoving. Everything is blurry.

He sniffles.

The water turns off and Chris returns. His face is soft, familiar. Stiles wants to touch it. The towel is cold when Chris dabs at Stiles’ cheeks with it.

Stiles’ hand moves of its own volition, fisting the material of Chris’ shirt as he cleans away the snot and tears. Stiles wonders if Jackson ever did this for Lydia. If he did, he can’t anymore. Stiles closes his eyes. The towel wipes gently over them.

Jackson is dead.

Chris wipes over Stiles’ lips and his nose, which is probably gross but just… seems comforting. The cold of the towel feels good. Stiles sniffles again. Something, probably the towel, lands in the vicinity of the sink. Chris’ jeans brush lightly against Stiles. Everything throbs in pain. He wants it all to stop. Stiles feels useless: bum leg dislocated shoulder, bruised and abused body… useless. He’s just so powerless.

Damp, cold hands cup Stiles’ face. Thumbs swipe under his eyes.

“That better?” Chris’ voice is soft, gentle. So full of concern.

Stiles’ mouth won’t stop twitching. It’s too quiet in the house. He knows there are others here. Derek, Deaton, Danny… but it still feels empty.

Stiles feels empty. His grip on Chris’ shirt tightens. Jackson isn’t here. He’ll never be again. Stiles shakes his head, eyes opening. He stares at Chris’ neck. At that ill-defined edge where stubble ends and smooth skin begins. He follows it down to where Chris’ T-shirt covers his chest.

Mechanically, Stiles lets go of Chris’ shirt, reaches up, wraps his fingers around the back of Chris’ neck, and pulls. Chris moves with little resistance, as always, giving in to Stiles, letting him take and take.

Chris’ lips feel like home. They feel like every lazy day in bed, every plate of not-quite-fluffy scrambled eggs, every Bruce Campbell movie marathon and every night they’ve fallen asleep together and every time that they realized they were wearing each other’s shirts.

Stiles kisses him frantically, believing for an instant that if he doesn’t he might cease to exist. Chris’ hands are wonderfully strong on his face. Stiles pulls back a little, lips still touching Chris’, remembering the split in his lip. He doesn’t want to hurt Chris anymore.

There’s been enough pain today.

They stare at each other like that. Stiles has no idea if this should feel awkward or not. He can’t help saying, “I love you.”

Chris kisses him; hands sliding back over his scalp. Stiles hisses. Chris pulls back.

“Shit, sorry. I forgot.”

Stiles’ head throbs afresh in pain. He’d forgotten—they’d both forgotten. Stiles smiles at him a sad, tired, look.

“It’s OK. Gotta be careful not to pull on the stitches, though.”

Chris does not look any less guilty. The hair on the back of his neck tickles Stiles’ fingers when he slides them up to pull Chris in again.

The kiss is soft. Stiles closes his eyes, pain flaring with the realization that this is something that Jackson will never do again. He curls his fingers around a tuft of Chris’ hair and tries not to cry.

“I love you,” Chris says, voice gentle with his lips against Stiles’.

He presses his forehead against Stiles’ and cups his face with both hands. Stiles’ eyeballs hurt, his face is still itchy, and Jackson is dead. Chris moves his hands down and back across Stiles’ sides. They say nothing for a little while.

Stiles drifts in the safety of shaky nothingness. It’s… not unpleasant. Not nice, but not bad. He almost wishes he could stay like this for longer. His leg may be bothering him but it doesn’t completely register.

He knows that Chris says something but the words don’t really penetrate. On autopilot, he helps Chris get him off the counter. One arm goes around Chris; the other hangs limp in its sling.

He makes it to the bed only because he has Chris to lean on. He pulls the covers down and Stiles curls up on his good side. He stares at the spot next to him. There’s the sound of a pill bottle rattling then the bed dips behind Stiles. Chris holds a pill up to him. Stiles opens his mouth. Pill goes in. He swallows.

There’s a joke in there somewhere and if Stiles were in his right mind he’d make it. Instead a hand runs up and down his back and he closes his eyes. It’s soothing.

Stiles’ mind starts to drift like snow over vast plains of nothing.

The sheets smell like stale Chris and the room is bright but muzzier by the second. Something mewls. The hand disappears. A fuzzy thing is sat in front of him. Stiles curls around it.

Cat.

The fur feels nice. Stiles buries his face in it.

Therapy cat.

The last thing he’s conscious of is a high pitched rumbling. It’s comforting.

Sad kitty. Broken kitty. Purr Purr Purr.

Stiles can empathize.

He should totally give Dread to his dad.

 

There was a dream. In it someone cries so hard it turns into laughter and Stiles is so warm he breathes ice. Nothing can touch him.

 

Stiles wakes up to a pair of brown eyes staring at him and something fuzzy under his chin. Dread and Danny. It’s darker than it was when he fell asleep. Was it that late already? Did he sleep through the day?

Dread’s tail twitches against his neck.

“You remember when he came back from London?” Danny asks, voice rough. “And he’d picked up that stupid accent?”

Stiles smiles tiredly.

“Yeah, he gave me dead arm for imitating him.”

Danny smiles. It’s a sadder look than Stiles can stand.

“Him and Derek got into this big fight over that.”

Stiles nods. He remembers it well. He’d had to break up several scuffles between the two of them with Lydia’s help.

“You know,” Danny says and reaches out to pet Dread. “He didn’t actually mean it—when he said you were a useless werewolf groupie.”

Stiles maneuvers his left arm so he can touch Danny’s right elbow.

“You don’t have to make amends for him. Jackson i-was a jerk… but he was _our_ jerk.”

Danny lets out a noise half between a laugh and a harrumph.

“It’s j—“ Danny cuts himself off, his face contorting between so many different emotions that Stiles can’t differentiate between them. “I’m so… pissed at him. God, that sounds awful.”

Danny rolls onto his back and covers his face. Stiles’ lips turn up at the corners, brain obviously confused about what to do with his face. It’s surreal to see fresh grief on someone else. Stiles is so used to being the one who loses; the one who has to limp along behind everyone else as they run ahead with no thought to the wreckage they leave behind. Stiles takes a deep breath.

“When—when my mom died, I hated her for it. I hated her for not living, for leaving my dad and me alone. I was so angry at her for giving up,” Stiles says quietly, staring down at Dread’s cast. Someone has drawn little paw prints and dead fish on it. He’d put money down that it was Chris. “I knew that it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t choose to… slip away but it didn’t stop me from hating her for doing that to me and my dad.”

The bed shifts. Stiles doesn’t look up. His heart hurts so much right now. He misses her. It’s this constant background ache that he’s just gotten used to over the years.

“Stiles…” Danny croaks out. Stiles shakes his head.

“Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Except it’s not a step by step; they all mix and churn about in your head and leave you dizzy and sick.”

Danny comes into Stiles’ line of sight. He wedges his right arm under Stiles and hangs his left arm over Stiles’ waist. His everything hurts. Stiles just wants to sleep until it goes away but he can’t. The pain is as permanent as Scott’s tattoos. He curls around Dread and into Danny as best he can.

Which isn’t much between his fucked up leg and dislocated shoulder. Danny rests his forehead against the crown of Stiles’ head.

Neither of them says a thing. They just lay there like that, quietly grieving together. Stiles’ eyes are drowned in mostly unshed tears and there’s a wet spot on the pillow near his temple that tells him that Danny’s have flooded their dams and run off down his face.

It’s Danny who breaks the silence.

“Wish I could get drunk.”

Stiles sniffles and doesn’t think about the haze of drunkenness his dad spent the year after his mom died in.

“And I wish I could do the foxtrot; we don’t all get what we want.”

Danny coughs out a laugh. Stiles feels guilty for saying that already.

“Brutal, Stilinski.”

“That’s my name.”

Danny shifts on the bed, his breath blowing on to Stiles’ face. It’s acidic like curdled milk.

“I thought it was John.”

Stiles shrugs – which, _ow_ — and says, “Neither but close enough.”

He looks up in time to see Danny frown.

“I thought I heard your dad call you John before.”

Stiles nods and sighs out, “He does that sometimes.”

Dread shifts so Stiles gets a face full of cat’s ass.

“… But it isn’t John.”

“Nope.”

Danny squints at Stiles.

“Then what is it?”

Stiles grins, glad his ploy to distract Danny is working.

“So this one time my mom made a new friend at work. Her friend thought she had a daughter because she would hear about her kid, ‘Jan’.”

Danny just frowns harder at this. Stiles continues.

“Then she met my dad and _he_ talked about a ‘John’. Mom’s friend then thought they had twins: John and Jan. And _then_ my amuma visited and she kept going on about her biloba and ‘Neeshie’. So she was like ‘ all right. There’s Jan, John, Biloba, and Neeshie’.”

Danny looks dazed and irritated at this point. Stiles had forgotten how much he misses these stories.

“It took her another two months to realize they were all the same kid: me.”

“Wait,” Danny says, holding up a hand. “Which one is your name and what is a-moo-ma?”

“She’s my grandma and none of them.” Here Stiles pauses, considers, then says, “Or all of them. Depends on how you look at it.”

Danny shakes his head.

“I am so confused. Why don’t any of you Stilinskis have first names?

“Long tradition of screwing with people,” Stiles says with a straight face.

Danny glares at him.

“What _is_ your name?”

“I’m Stiles.”

Danny places a well-aimed poke onto his shoulder. Stiles hisses. That _fucking hurt._

“Asshole.”

“Tell me.”

They glare at each other. Stiles’ shoulder throbs anew in pain, neighborhood kids shriek somewhere nearby.

“I’ll tell you what, if you can guess it I’ll give you my autographed copy of _Fight Club._ ”

Danny rolls his eyes.

“Or I can just steal your wallet and find out.”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Won’t help. Only has my middle and last name on it.”

Danny’s jaw drops. He stares at Stiles, a look of horrified admiration on his face.

“Why must everything to do with you be so convoluted and obscure?”

Stiles starts to laugh. The laugh turns into a giggle. He can’t control it. Danny’s question simply hits a little to close to home considering the mess Stiles’ life has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a name out there in the world that is the equivalent of John and starts with a "G," effectively tying together two things that annoy the shit out of me: fandom's insistence that the Stilinski men are called John and Genim.  
> Genim isn't even a real name, by the way.  
> Also, when someone asks to be called by something that isn't their legal name it's really fucking rude to ignore that no matter your relationship to them. It's not cute or thoughtful or intimate when you do that.  
> It's just insulting and disrespectful.  
> But what do I know? It's not like I deal with this all the time or anything. 
> 
>  
> 
> ******Oh, I'm **_considering_** this being the last chapter of this story.  
>  Aside from the epilogue.  
> So tell me: what more do you want from me?


	62. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris, Stiles, and a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. This is the last chapter of 'Clothes'.  
> I know it's been a while since I posted. Sorry about that. I am so nervous that this wouldn't be good enough.  
> It's been quite an adventure, writing this. I wasn't expecting so many positive responses. I had geared myself up for war and flames and instead I got all of you wonderful readers, leaving so many beautifully thoughtful comments. I was surprised by how _invested_ you all were.  
>  I can say with all honesty that without all of you, this story would not have been possible.  
> So thank you. Thank you so very much.  
> Anyway, enough with the gushing.  
> Let's begin, shall we?

**Some days it’s like it just happened all over again** , he reflects. Everything seems as fresh as a newly tilled field. Yes, terrible things have happened, Chris thinks, lightly trailing his fingers over Stiles’ sling. Horrible, awful things but… Chris is happy—worried, but happy. How could he want anything else with the warm weight of Stiles sleeping on him? Though the couch is not exactly the most comfortable place in the world, right now he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

It’s selfish of him, he knows. A young man died, Allison is pissed at him because of Vickie, and then there’s Vickie herself.

Chris knows her too well to think she’ll stop at this. The mother of his child (and how strange it is to think she may not be the love of his life anymore) is not one to do anything by halves. This whole debacle is probably pathetic by her standards. There is no doubt in Chris’ mind that she’ll try again or that this is simply the head of her plot.

“Hmmm, like that, ‘ngel,” Stiles mutters in his sleep, effectively bringing Chris back to the present.

Chris smiles and spreads his legs so Stiles is better nestled between them.

“Like how, baby?” Chris whispers against the top of Stiles’ head, placing his hands on Stiles’ hips and rubbing lightly at the bones there. Stiles lets out a sleepy chuckle, kissing at the air. There’s a little thrill that rushes through Chris when he calls Stiles baby; a newness mixed with familiarity that both excites and scares him.

“’nt tease… feel your cock,” Stiles says, trailing off.

“You want to feel my cock?” Chris says, free from the self-consciousness that overcomes him every time he tries to talk dirty to Stiles by his unconscious state. He sighs out a yes that does funny things to Chris before shifting, lower back now rubbing against Chris’ prick teasingly.

“Where would you like me to put it?”

Stiles frowns, mutters Chris’ name, says, “Need… fuck, just—Chris? Where—What?”

Stiles fidgets and Chris can tell that Stiles’ dream has turned sour. He kisses the top of Stiles’ head, left hand sliding so it’s flat against Stiles’ stomach (and how much he loves the feel of that smoothly muscled stomach under his hands).

“Shhh, baby. It’s O.K., everything is fine.”

Stiles settles and Chris has to fight off the habitual panic that takes over him with every time Stiles does something that makes Chris feel wanted, needed, important.

Chris carefully slides out from under Stiles to stand beside the couch, deciding that it's time for them to go to bed. Considering how banged up Stiles has gotten this week, it would be no favor for Chris to let him sleep on the couch no matter how much he enjoys the feeling of Stiles on top of him.

Stiles only stirs enough to hang his left arm around Chris’ neck when he picks him up.

There’s always a certain awkwardness to carrying Stiles; he’s taller than Chris and broader so Chris’ arms supporting him across his back and under his lovely ass, just above his legs, are held far enough apart that it’s uncomfortable and strains his shoulders. It’s something that Chris is willing to deal with for Stiles not to have to make the painful trek upstairs.

He does have to admit, if only to himself, that part of his willingness to carry Stiles is because it makes him feel… manly.

Stiles’ head lolls back, mouth open when Chris takes the first step up the stairs. The only sounds that reach Chris are the patter of rain and a light wind that buffets the trees surrounding the house. Allison, Erica, and Scott are all asleep by now. Though, how all three of them fit on Allison’s bed is beyond him.

Then again, their whole relationship is beyond Chris. Maybe there is some secret to it that he doesn’t know. Like how they make a bed meant for two fit three. Chris tries not to think about it. As head of the Argent household, Allison’s decisions are absolute; it isn’t Chris’ place to question her, even if he doesn’t agree with some of her decisions. Letting Vickie go unpunished for her actions is a mistake but Chris knows he can’t be cruel enough to shatter his little girl’s illusions about her mom.

Vickie is a vicious woman, Chris thinks as he slowly makes his way up the stairs. It’s what attracted him to her in the first place. Her aggression had always seemed like a good thing. Now… Chris stops halfway up the stairs to readjust his hold on Stiles. His little girl is upstairs, dreaming, being held by two werewolves she loves while Chris carries his battered boyfriend up the stairs.

Her aggressive personality became destructive the moment she tried to break their daughter’s heart by breaking Allison’s loved ones.

He loves her, how can he not? He was her husband and is the father of her child but there is no forgiveness for what she’s done.

Stiles stirs in his arms enough to lift his head and press his face into his neck. Chris’ heart skips a beat when Stiles mumbles about stubbled angels.

Chris starts up the stairs again, firmly decided. He’s been dutifully following the orders the matriarch of the family gives his whole life. Petulant protests aside, it’s all he knows; he isn’t about to disobey even if he wants to.

Stiles’ right hand weakly gropes its way towards Chris, movements hampered by his sling. The murky light that filters through the rain into the house makes Stiles’ cuts and bruises seem darker, deeper, and worse than Chris logically knows they are. It turns Stiles’ skin pale, makes him look fragile.

Chris knows it’s a trick of the light. Stiles is anything but fragile. How else could he survive countless preternatural encounters with nothing more than a few injuries if not because of strength and a resolve that most do not possess?  No, Stiles is not fragile, Chris thinks as he reaches the top of the stairs. Starkly pragmatic, intelligent, and stubborn with an ingenuity that Chris can’t help but marvel at is what Stiles is. Anyone who could look at Stiles even as he is now and think he is weak is a fool.

Their bedroom door is ajar which is a relief because opening doors with his arms full of Stiles is difficult to say the least. Chris has to pause in the doorway to marvel at what he just thought.

Their bedroom. Their house. Their life, together. He takes a shaky breath, mouth moving funnily while his vision briefly swims. Chris gently shakes his head, careful not to move too much lest he wake Stiles. He’s going to have to do some remodeling, he realizes as he takes a few steps into the room and uses his back to shut the door. He leans against it for a moment and plans.

A full bath will have to be installed downstairs—one with grip bars and a shower chair. Then there’s going to be some rearranging: cabinets will have to be reorganized so Stiles doesn’t need to kneel down to reach anything or try a step-ladder to get things on high shelves (though the latter of that is less necessary seeing as how Stiles is the one who always has to get things out of the top shelf for Chris), and his—their bedroom is going to have to be moved to the ground floor. There’s no sense in making Stiles climb those damned stairs every day. He’ll have to move his office upstairs so that they can use the room for the new bedroom plus he’s going to have to move the stuff he keeps in the garage to make room for Stiles’ Jeep.

There’s a lot that he’s going to do to make their home good enough for Stiles.

That’s nothing new to Chris, though; changing his habits and surroundings to better accommodate Stiles is something he has a lot of practice with. Sometimes, Chris has to admit guiltily as he walks the distance to their bed, he hates it.

He hates that there are so many things that just aren’t possible with Stiles, hates the hassle of having to find the handicap entrances to place, hates that he has to worry about accessibility, hates having to worry about how far his car is from somewhere, hates having to calculate exactly how much Stiles can do before he’s too tired or in too much pain to go on.

He sees couples walking past their house in the evening, out for a relaxing stroll and resents them for being able to take for granted the ease with which they can just do that. Sometimes, he admits as he lowers Stiles down onto their bed, he even resents Stiles. Resents that he just didn’t get better, that he got hurt in the first place. He hates himself for it but he can’t help feeling that way. He knows that if Stiles knew he felt that way sometimes that it would break his heart. Chris abhors the possibility that one day Stiles might find out and is disgusted by himself that he can’t help it.

Stiles stirs on the bed, stretching out a little, sleepily tugging at his sling. Chris automatically starts to undress him. First are his shoes. Chris unlaces Stiles’ boots before carefully pulling them off. He sets them just under the bed.

“Mmm, I was havin’ a great dream,” Stiles murmurs as he clumsily tries to extract himself from his sling. Chris smiles, peeling off Stiles’ socks. Those are tossed in the general direction of the hamper.

“Yeah?” he asks and kneels on the bed, hands moving to unbutton Stiles’ pants. Stiles grunts, wriggles, the band of the sling caught under him.

“You were there,” Stiles goes on as Chris slides the zipper on his jeans down. He can’t help but feel a little fascinated by the appearance of Stiles’ boxers. On an impulse, he leans down and lays a kiss on the patch of skin exposed by where Stiles’ shirt has ridden up. Stiles’ belly is warm and firm under Chris’ lips. Stiles shivers a little bit.

“And naked,” Stiles breathes out.

Chris looks up from where he is still hovering over Stiles’ stomach. Stiles has his head craned down, looking at Chris like he’s all he wants in the world. Chris curls his fingers into the band of Stiles’ jeans and ducks his head to watch what he’s doing. Removing Stiles’ pants is always the trickiest part of getting ready for bed. One wrong move will make the evening spiral into Chris feeling guilty as Stiles tries to breath even and any possibility of sleep is destroyed.

Luckily, Chris has had a lot of practice undressing Stiles. While it’s awkward, involving a lot of finagling to get Stiles’ pants off without upsetting his knee, Chris knows he can do it. He starts by tugging down the front of Stiles’ pants as low as he can.

“You were on top of me, sorta—I don’t know—floating and I had to hold on to you or you’d float away,” Stiles says, still wrestling with the sling. Chris slides his hands under Stiles, fingers still curled in his jeans and slowly pulls. “And you were fingmerfn-” Stiles breaks off talking, sling now stuck over his mouth. Chris moves his hands to Stiles’ sides and continues to pull until his pants are down past his ass. He slides off the bed, grabs the hem of Stiles’ jeans. Stiles helpfully lifts his left leg as he continues to talk.

“Me, talking about how you were gonna—ha! Take that you annoying shit.”

Chris smiles, amused by Stiles’ victorious expression. Stiles throws the sling towards the other side of the room and flops back, right arm curled against his chest. Chris slowly extracts Stiles' left leg from his pants, aided by Stiles who bends his leg or shifts his weight with an ease that only comes from how much practice they've had together. 

"Fuck me until I saw stars," Stiles continues, his left hand absently playing with the hem of his shirt. Chris' chest feels hot at that, imaginings of Stiles spread out under him, thighs framing Chris’ hips running through his head. He has to take a slow breath before he grabs Stiles' right pant leg and waits for Stiles to shift a little so he can pull his jeans off the rest of the way without Stiles having to bend his knee. 

"Is that what you were talking about?" Chris asks as he slowly pulls off Stiles' jeans. Stiles hums.

"Talking when?"

"You were talking in your sleep."

Stiles wriggles his toes, now free from his pants. Chris folds them slowly and tries not to stare at the scars. He fails this time as he does all times. He can't help it. The raised white stripes and the thick pink trenches where Stiles' flesh has yet to fill in the missing pieces of muscle and skin are fascinating. It's a testament to Stiles' resilience. He's missing muscle, broke his bones, lost skin and so much blood but he's still here, still standing strong and fighting.

"I was?"

Chris nods, walks over to the hamper, picking up Stiles' socks along the way. He puts them in the hamper and turns around before speaking. 

"Said you wanted to feel my- cock." 

Stiles smiles slowly and licks his lips as he watches Chris walk back over to the bed. Because he feels a false sense of bravado over managing to say that out loud, Chris slowly pulls his shirt off as he walks and tosses it onto the hamper, stretching a little more than necessary— possibly just to show off for Stiles.

"I do love your cock."

Chris stops in front of Stiles, hands fidgeting with the button on his jeans. He waits for the time it takes Stiles to manage to sit-up before popping the button. Stiles scoots to the edge of the bed, syrupy smile on his face. Chris stills.

Stiles looks up at him, sucks his lip into his mouth, then says, "Are you going to show it to me, Chris? I'd love to see it."

Chris has to remind himself to breath when Stiles runs his knuckles over his fly. It's ridiculous how affected he is by Stiles. He doesn't remember deciding to undo the zipper or shuck his jeans but he knows he's doing it. 

Stiles scoots slowly backwards until he’s in the middle of the bed while Chris crawls after him. Chris doesn’t stop until he feels Stiles’ hips between his knees. Stiles props himself up on his left arm, right still curled against his chest. Chris kisses him. Then kisses him again because he can. Stiles smiles into the kiss while lowering himself down. Chris automatically follows, bracing his weight on his left arm, his right hand sliding over Stiles’ stomach.

He loves the way Stiles kisses; the way he teases Chris’ lips with his tongue, grazes his teeth against lips and tongue and skin, how he absently slides his left arm from Chris’ neck down to his ass then back up again, fingers teasing at Chris’ spine. They stay like that for a while, kissing, until Chris’ arm grows tired of holding him up.

Chris lays down on Stiles’ left on his side and allows Stiles to pull him until he’s resting with his head on Stiles’ shoulder with only one stop to pull the blankets up along the way. Stiles sighs, shifts, stills, then shifts again.

“Will you—I need some pillows,” Stiles says.

Chris sits up, grabs some pillows from the other side of the bed, and helps Stiles situate himself on his side. One pillow goes between his legs, one behind his back, one in front of his chest to rest his arm on, and another under his head. Chris helps as best he can, only pausing once when his fingers brush against Stiles’ knee, back tense, waiting for some sign that he’s caused pain. A muscle in Stiles’ thigh twitches but, aside from that, there’s no indication that he disturbed Stiles with the touch.

When he settles back down, Stiles is curled comfortably on his side, totally enshrined by pillows. Chris curls up on his side, facing Stiles and his barricade of pillows. He’s not as close as he was before but that’s alright. This way Stiles can sleep with as little discomfort and pain as possible.

Stiles reaches out with his left hand so Chris scoots closer. The fingers of their left hands entwine together and Chris smiles at Stiles.

 

Chris watches Stiles sleep with his mouth open, most of the pillows he’d arranged pushed away or flattened. He kisses the back of Stiles’ hand, still firmly in his and doesn’t fight off the way his chest tightens. One year and three weeks. He’s been with this amazing man for one year and three weeks.

Yes, it’s been hard, terrifying at times, frustrating, and a heavy weight on him. They’ve had to do so much to keep this relationship alive. Sometimes it’s been a heavy weight to carry. Stiles’ life has not been easy; there’s a crushing amount of terrible things weighing him down and Chris has done his best to shoulder some of the burden, to lighten the load Stiles carries.

It hasn’t been easy but it’s worth it. Momentarily, ceaselessly worth it just for right now, just for this. Stiles grunts in his sleep, shifts. Chris curls up until he can press his head against Stiles’ shoulder, body curved around the pillow meant for his dislocated shoulder. Obliging Stiles in all ways is an onus that he would readily and happily shoulder for the rest of his life. 

Chris kisses the smooth skin in front of his face and closes his eyes. He should make waffles in the morning. Allison and Stiles love waffles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was good enough. Now for the business.  
> First: feedback? What did you think of how I ended it?  
> Second: I'm going to be starting a new story but I'm not sure which of my ideas to focus fully on now.  
> Here are the options:  
> 1\. Succubus!Stiles, invading werewolves, and an abomination. The slash would pretty much be everyone/Stiles with romantic pairings of Chris/Stiles, one-sided Stiles/Derek, and other various pairings like Allison/Scott, Isaac/Allison, and Danny/Scott. This one is spring-boarded off of "What Did You Expect With a Mouth Like That?" The POVs are Chris and Derek.  
> 2\. Infidelity. This one would be relatively short. Involves Stiles and Derek having a child (mentions and the product of past mpreg). This one is most definitely AU with age altering. Inspired by the song The Killing Type by Amanda Palmer & The Grand Theft Orchestra (watch the video, it's amazing). Pairings are Derek/Stiles and Chris/Stiles as well as Allison/Scott and Lydia/Scott.  
> 3\. The title of this one is Object Permanence. Ghost!Derek, morally gray!Stiles, dark!AU. This one would be pretty disturbing. Derek&Stiles with Stiles/Chris. Basically, it's a vengeance!fic with an odd twist.  
> 4\. The Bed Song. Unrequited love, a life together, ends with people dead. This one would also be relatively short. Maybe five-ish sections. Basically Stiles pining after Derek while they live together.  
> 5\. They Will Be Found, They Will Not Be The Same. Trapped in a small space, waiting for an end to this. There's nothing that they can do. Chris/Stiles. Basically, there will be no other characters. Just the two of them stuck together in a sort of bunker for a very long time.  
> 6\. Time travel!AU. Future!Stiles lives in a cabin in the woods, now firmly stuck in the past, his future is gone. Chris moves up there after he retires. Cue every purple back plot arc ever.  
> 7\. Another time travel!AU. This one is again Stiles (and maybe some others) get transported back to a little after where the current season ends. Witches, fighting, and possibly some wonky fucking with the time line. This would sort of-- sort of --be a kind of sequel to WHWOTMOOC maybe. Or at least a very very similar history for the characters.
> 
> And lastly: this verse is now open to prompts. I'm not saying I'll take them all but if I like the idea I might write little flash fictions inspired by the prompts.
> 
> Wow, that is THE longest AN I have ever left. If you read that all then you have more patience than I would.  
> Again, thank you for sticking with me for this whole damn thing.  
> Fuck.  
> It's actually over.  
> I need a drink.  
> 


End file.
